


C8H11NO2+C10H12N2O+C43H66N12O12S2

by deltachye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Minor Violence, Reader-Insert, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 28,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8115745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltachye/pseuds/deltachye
Summary: [reader x sherlock holmes] [response to Byakko-chan's 'Love' challenge]Dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin. Love really isn’t that hard — unless of course, you’re in love with Sherlock Holmes.





	1. i - New

 ❛ **οὐροβόρος** ❜

* * *

 

You first met him at a daycare, where his parents deposited him with an older boy. You’d been at the daycare for a while, since both your parents worked, and hadn’t seen others join the small community in quite a while.

The taller one took off before you could even begin your ‘hello’, however, the one with light curly locks stayed.

“Hiya,” you greeted, smiling as wide as you could. Mum had always said that your overwhelming happiness was a great trait about you.

“Go away,” he said.

Well, that didn’t work.

“Why?” you were quite offended by the quick push-off he’d given you. He was obviously annoyed — his lower lip was a pout and his eyes were shifty. He had his arms crossed too, much like Dad did when he was cross at you. He looked very grown up, but you were taller than him, so he probably wasn’t.

“Mycroft said that I shouldn’t talk to anybody,” he said to you, after noticing you hadn’t left. He had a very snobby tone to his voice, and his big words made your head spin. “They’ll make me stupid.”

“That’s mean,” you replied, whiny. “I won’t make you stupid, I promise!”

He eyed you suspiciously, his chin raised upwards as if to say ‘I’m better than you!’. “How do I know that?”

“Because _I’m_ smart, duh!”

“Well, what’s the chemical name for water?”

You were stunned quiet. “What-a what what?”

“I thought so.” He sighed, unfolding his arms and placing them into his dark trouser pockets. “I’m going to go.”

“But wait! I don’t even know your name!” you jogged after the lanky boy, desperate not to lose him.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he recited off his heart, stopping in his steps. You ran into his back, stepping away and rubbing your nose. Turning around, his face was one of annoyance. “Why do you care?”

“Because I want a new friend!” You placed your hands on your hips, like your mother did when she wanted something, and lifted up your chin all the way like he did. “All these people are _booooring_. I don’t like them.”

“You seem boring, too.”

“I’m not!”

“Why?”

You felt like you were being interrogated, but you stood your ground. “Because…” you struggled to think — what, oh what would make this boy like you…? “Because I’m a good pirate.”

“You’re a good pirate?” he repeated.

“Yeah. Everybody says I’m a really good person to play with, because I can be anything. Playing pirate is one of my favourites, because I get to stab the other snotty girls who just want to talk about boys.” You were ranting now, so you shut yourself up and waited for a response. You bounced on your heels, you hands placed behind your back.

“…I’ve never played pirates before.” His voice was slowly drawn out, as if reluctant to still be talking to you but curious all the same.

You beamed. “Then let’s try something new for you, eh…” you paused. “What was your name again?”

“William — ”

“Actually, let’s just call you Sherlock. Okay?”

“Wait.”

You stopped in your tracks, letting go of the hand you had grabbed in order to lead him into the playroom. “What?”

“I don’t know your name yet. Mummy said it’s rude not to ask people their names.”

You poked him in the stomach instead, laughing when he doubled over. “The name’s Cap’n Redbeard to you! Now are you gonna scrub the poopdeck or am I gonna’ have ta’ make ya’ walk th’ plank?”

Needless to say, the new addition to your life was a very strange one indeed.


	2. ii - Affection

Affection was pretty hard to get from the young Sherlock.

When he wasn’t staring at a textbook, he was working on his labs, writing notes about cationic compounds and explaining how Jose couldn’t _possibly_ be the murderer. 

So when you did get something from him, it was usually something you had to remember because it was so vague, and then analyze long and hard about. It came in many forms. A look that lasted more than a second, an accidental brushing of the hand, the slightest touch on the shoulder. 

It could’ve been the end of a relationship; you could’ve called it bad communication and left. But it wasn’t. Because when he threw his coat at you during a cold winter’s day, or let you change the channel on the telly, it was his equivalent of shouting, “I care about you”.


	3. iii - Attraction

The attraction started when you were 9 years old.

You liked hanging around the moody boy more than you should. You pretended to understand what he raved on about, and you defended him when other people called him weird. But the moment when you decided you had a crush on Sherlock Holmes was when he broke your knee.

It was a simple accident. You didn’t hold a grudge, but you did have a funny sort of limp when you ran. The older Sherlock always made a habit of commenting on it.

You weren’t very popular amongst the grade school children — however, in the small town, everybody knew each other anyways. That meant you couldn’t escape your enemies. A gang of girls, jealous that you had connections with the swoon-worthy and mysterious grade-skipper Mycroft Holmes, had surrounded you during a lunch recess.

“I’m telling you, I’ve never even met the bloke!” you protested, crossing your arms. “Mycroft never talks to me when I’m at Sherlock’s house, anyways. All he does is call me stupid and run away.”

“ _You_ go to his house?” an Asian girl shrilled, gasping. “You’re making a move on Abby’s man!”

 _‘Man…?’_ you thought bitterly as Abby, the group’s head honcho, puffed up her chest. _‘He’s still just a boy. An anti-social brat, at the bloody most._

“You can have him,” you replied tautly, putting your hands into your jean pockets. “May I go, please?”

It was a windy day, and a horrible one at that. Rain had started to fall, but since it wasn’t yet cold enough to pass the school’s regulations, all children were forced to remain outside. The rainstorm had caught everybody by surprise, and they stood outside shivering in summer clothing. You rubbed your goosebump riddled arms. Rain pelted your face like small stones, and you squinted to see. You hair started to whip around your face. 

“It doesn’t matter that Mycroft doesn’t like you. Sherlock doesn’t, either.” Abby’s haughty tone angered you, heating you up despite the cooling temperature.

“Sherlock likes me,” you snapped back, a bit too loudly. “He’s my friend.”

“Sherlock doesn’t _have_ any friends!” a girl you forgot the name of sneered. “Haven’t you seen ‘im? You’re a freak, just like he is.”

“Yeah, a freak.” Abby nodded with agreement, staring at you. “What should we do with the freak?”

“I’ll tell Professor Ellis that you’ve been mean to me,” you warned, but your heart started to drop. Was it true? Did Sherlock really hate you? You had no care for your own social stature, but if Sherlock wasn’t your friend, then you didn’t have much else.

“But we’ll just say that you hit me first!” Abby retorted, her smile devilish. She feigned a sad, weepy expression, and you cursed yourself for getting into this situation with such an expert manipulator. Who knew children could be so cruel? She took a step towards you, her hand outstretched, and you realized why. There was nothing behind you.

The school grounds were deemed the worst kept of any park, ever. The hills had eroded away, leaving slick mud to deter anybody who dared to climb it. The grass was dead and slippery, and the trees had wilted. But, most terrifyingly of all were the multiple cliffs with menacing rocks littered below it, like the one you stood upon. There had been efforts to clean it, and petitions for the town to create a more safe environment, but the funds were low — so the stakes remained high.

“You wouldn’t,” you hissed, hugging yourself tighter and refusing to move. “If I die right now, everybody will know.”

“She only tripped, and slid down! We tried to catch her, but it was too late.” A younger blonde girl on Abby’s right recited it off with a tear-jerking tone, and you scowled. They were _really_ going to push you.

You didn’t move. You were too stubborn to run. You closed your eyes when Abby approached —

But then, a sudden tackle from the side had you rolling, away from the cliff and into a ditch (which were also a regularity in the terrible playgrounds). Your kneecap popped from the combined weight of yours and the random figure’s, and you howled, writhing under him.

“If you had been pushed down there,” Sherlock panted, his face appearing into your vision, upside down. His sharp features were swimming in the tears beginning to collect in your eyes, but he ranted on, a smear of mud across his nose. “Your parietal would have broken, most likely in devastating fractures. Your occipital lobe would have been damaged, and consequently, you’d probably be dead.”

“Sherlock!” you screamed, clutching your knee. “You _idiot_!”

But, the thought was what counted, so when an apology note and university level science textbook named ‘Detailed Anatomical Structure of the Human Skull’ appeared at your hospital bedside, you knew you liked him.


	4. iv - Devotion

You’d already known for a long time that Sherlock was a completely devoted boy.

You’d seen it in his face as he hunched over his little experiments — in the little pout on his face as he watched his results and yelled at people compromising his results. You were sure to steer clear when you saw that face, because you knew there was nothing that could draw his eyes away from the science.

So it surprised you when he was seen skulking around your hospital room. You hated to admit you kept his card under your pillow, but you displayed his textbook on your bedside table — he seemed to be proud. 

“Though you might need summat to keep you busy, keep you from going slow,” he would mutter, fiddling with mathematical equations by your bedside. Although the _betas_ and _fractional differentiations_ made your head hurt more than it already was, his company kept you warm. It was only when you’d woken up, much later and much groggier, and he was still there with his head nestled near your legs: did you realize that his devotion had completely shifted from the science to you.


	5. v - Compassion

When your dog had died from being hit by a passing car, you were aghast. You wailed and cried for hours, the waterworks starting up at random and inappropriate times, until even your sympathetic parents got pissed off.

“Go to your room!” your mum shrilled, after you started crying while your younger brother tried to recite his A+ winning speech to the family at supper. You gladly took the chance and dashed upstairs, but the empty mound of pillows your dog had slept in only made you sadder. You decided to phone the boy next doors. He picked up after the third attempt; his tone was just as annoyed as all the people around you.

“Sherlock!” you hiccupped, surprised he’d picked up at all.

“Yes, I know it’s you. What do you want? Are you hurt? Sick?”

“N-no… but my dog, right…”

“Let me guess. Died?”

You were stunned into a moment of silence before you scrambled for words so he wouldn’t hang up. “Right! I knew you were smart, yeah, but not _that_ smart… you en’t a mind reader now, are you?”

“Aren’t. And no, I am not. It’s common logic. Lots of young adolescent girls react this way to losing their pets. I also heard about him from my parents. It’s a shame.”

You scowled, his dry and apathetic voice starting to anger you, rather than provide you with the comfort you wanted. “Sher, Redbeard was my best friend for a long time. He shouldn’t have died like that. Not because some moron ran him over.”

“Really? I suppose it could be chalked up to natural selection.”

“Natural selection?” you gasped, horrified he would even say such a disgraceful thing. “I loved him!”

“And he’s dead. There’s no point in loving things that don’t exist. I can hear what you say at his grave, too. You'd better quit it, 's not like dead things can hear or see you.”

“Sher, h-have a lil’ compassion, won’t you?” you asked quietly, your voice already trembling. You desperately needed him to say something to make you feel better. Now.

“Compassion is useless and stupid. Goodbye.”

And he hung up.

\---

You skulked around the edge of the concrete compound. You had the common sense not to wander near the cliffs any longer, so you hung back next to the school. Your teachers were concerned. You had loved to run around — in fact, it was how you depleted most of your energy, making you easier to handle. But you had no more energy. They worried, but you brushed them off, and you were alone. Your lunch kit was left unopened, and you stared off into the hills, wishing your pup could be running among the slippery grasses, panting joyously. 

“Oi. You.”

You jumped. Nobody had wanted to talk to you since you’d slipped into depression, so the sudden curt tone startled you. You turned to the side tiredly, recognizing the bony knees without having to look up.

“Go away, Holmes,” you said bitterly, looking back to the hills. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”

“My mum brought 'im here for a moment while she talks to the professors. I wanted you to meet him.”

A yelp, familiar and yet strange, sharply brought your attention to the boy you claimed to hate. A shaggy dog, excited and bright eyed, wriggled in the skinny boy’s arms. Sherlock dropped him onto the ground — or rather, the creature leapt out — and he started to lick your shoes, sniff your lunch kit. The liveliness started to brighten you, and you finally smiled, laughing to yourself.

“You got a dog?” you asked incredulously, immediately running your fingers through the dog’s long and wild hair. It was still young, so it stumbled while prancing around, but it responded to your touches with loud barks. The other kids started noticing, and pointing, but you had craved animal attention for so long that you refused to stop petting the dog. 

“I found him on the side of the road. Near the Hadley barn. I suppose you should want to name him Redbeard?”

You blinked. “Well... you en’t — aren’t — going to name him? He doesn’t have one already?”

“No.” He started shifting his weight from side to side, looking bashful. “Besides, he’s red, not gold like _your_ dog, so it makes more sense.”

“You’d really name him Redbeard for me? For the old Redbeard?” You pulled the dog’s face to yours, nuzzling the slightly damp fur. 

“Well, that’s a compassionate thing to do, is it not?”

You let the dog go, where it started to run, tongue flapping in the cold England air with pearly teeth bared like a smile. You stood up and hugged Sherlock, burrowing your face into his chest, which was about all you could reach from the lanky child.

"Thanks, you bastard."


	6. vi - Sun

It wasn’t long until the snow completely blanketed the English grounds.

It was a flash freeze, a blizzard, and completely uncalled for. The roads were thrown into panic as people rushed for supplies they had been too lazy to get before. Your parents called late into the night— they were stuck in traffic. You sat at your window, staring longingly at the dust twirling outside. You were still unable to leave your house because of your injury. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen or heard from, so you were stuck. You glanced upwards towards the milky white sky. It looked so bright, still, but the blue was completely sucked away by the cold coverage. It was if blue was now grey, and there had never been anything else before. 

You then felt a pang of longing for summer.

Nostalgia tumbled in your gut as you felt its rays against your cheeks, tasted it in fresh berries, watched it bounce off of the river’s surface. You wiped your cheeks hastily. It was silly to cry over the weather. You were getting much too emotional.

Your door’s bell ringing made you jump. You hurried down the stairs, thinking it was your parents, before you stopped dead on the last stair. Sherlock stood in your living room, shaking snow off his hair and clothes, your previously _locked_ door still open behind him. He had brought clumps of dirty snow inside with him, the icy pellets turning to water on the wooden floorboards. 

“Sherlock!” you cried, more surprised than anything. “Where’ve you been?”

“Busy,” he replied nonchalantly, looking up at you. “None of your business.”

“Wha — nevermind. How’d you get in?”

“It was quite easy to pick. I’ll be sure to let your parents know you oughta buy a better security system.”

You gaped. “You broke into my house, you bastard.”

He grinned devilishly. “Yes, thank you.”

You sighed, rubbing your skin, which was growing cold by the draft coming in through the failed front door. “At least close it, will you?”

Once he had, and you’d settled him in with a cup of tea, you realized something. As he droned on and on about an experiment he’d gone away to conduct, his nose pointed and aura haughty, you felt the warmth on your cheeks. You tasted excitement and you saw his brightness.

Perhaps you didn’t need the Sun to find the sun after all.


	7. vii - Generosity

You howled with disgust and leapt back, clutching yourself and squeezing your eyes shut, not daring to take another peek.

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

“What?” he demanded, swinging the thing at you. “I worked real hard to get this, y’know!”

“It’s a live _spider_ for god’s sake — no! Don’t throw it at me! Ah!”

You jumped and slapped at your clothes, shrieking and dancing as the spider tumbled down the front of your shirt onto the concrete. It scuttled around with confusion, and you screamed again.

“Honestly, I thought you weren’t one of _those_ girls, but here you are.” He sighed, bending down and allowing the horrid, hairy, long legged creature to creep back into his hand.

“Why did you bring it here? You know I hate spiders!” You felt its legs on your skin and flinched, scratching yourself.

“You do? Oh. I thought you said you liked them.” He looked confused, and then glanced down at the spider. 

“What’re you, deaf? Bollocks.”

He frowned and then placed the spider back onto the ground, where it shot off into the grass. You swallowed with relief, though you kept thinking every dark splotch in your vision was it racing back at you. Once the hysteria had cleared out your system enough, a realization came to you. 

“Wait, did you spend all last period trapping a spider so you could give it to me?” 

Sherlock was already marching away, his pride damaged, but froze once you said this. He whipped around.

“Well, why d’you think that?!”

“I-I just… I don’t know. I mean, ’s a real generous thing to do, and you aren’t that generous…”

“I’m generous!” His jaw jutted out and he scowled. “ _You’re_ the rude one here. You don’t _deserve_ an arachnid.” He then succeeded in getting away from you, ignoring your calls and storming off to god-knows-where. You sighed and looked at the grass, where his token of affection continued to crawl away. A ladybird lazily fluttered over and landed on your shoe, and you suddenly sparked up a brilliant idea. You scooped it into your hands.

“Sherlock, get back here! Bloody ‘ell, stop runnin’!”


	8. viii - Secure

In a single moment, your entire life and being had been whisked away.

To start at the beginning, you had just gotten approval from your doctors to remove your knee brace. Sherlock was off on some special forensics seminar and had left the care of Redbeard to you. You gladly accepted custody of the hound, the dog yipping and snapping playfully at your laces as you walked home. Your parents’d been out shopping at the market, and you had gotten bored of wandering in the snow. Without Sherlock, you didn’t have much to do. 

You hoped your parents weren’t inside when you arrived at the door, nose frozen and dripping with snot. They’d go mental from seeing your dirty condition and the equally soiled pup. You fumbled with the new lock — Sherlock had, indeed, told your parents about his concerns on security — and thrust open the door. Warmth flooded towards you like a flash of warm water, and you ushered the yelping dog inside.

After calling for your parents and receiving no answer, you assumed that they were just stuck in the snow somewhere. You clicked your tongue, getting Redbeard’s attention.

“How’s ‘bout some steak, yeah? Yeah, boy?”

The dog’s erratic scuttling signified excitement enough for you. You lead him into the kitchen, giggling as the dog bounded and slipped across your slippery floors, before stopping dead in your tracks. A man, taller than any Holmes and stockier than a tree stood at your stove. His back was hunched and he donned a grey hoodie. You froze. 

“Shit!”

The man shouted as Redbeard shot up at him, sinking powerful teeth into the man’s wrapped leg. You finally cried out with fear and backed up, clutching onto the wall and clenching your eyes shut. Sherlock’s voice echoed in your skull, though it wasn’t enough to drown out the heart-crushing sounds of Redbeard’s yelps. 

_‘It ain’t logical to just sit here and wait, y’know. Oughta run or something. Dummy.’_

You ignored the voice. Instead, you peeked back into the small kitchen, your heart beating so hard that you felt like you might die on the spot. Redbeard had been knocked aside and the man had booked it out the back exit. You slipped and slid, like Redbeard had been only seconds ago, sobbing and gasping. You held the dog’s bloody head in your hands, before darting to the back door. The scene, the scene straight out of a movie made you want to vomit. 

Your parents, with a jar of jam that had shattered on the floor next to them, lay in a pool of their own sweet redness. Their eyes gaped like stunned fish, and the slashes in their soft flesh made you dizzy. It didn’t seem real at all — you felt like you had been stuck in some awful night terror and needed to wake up. You stumbled back into the kitchen, where Redbeard kicked pitifully, whining and whimpering.

“Sherlock,” you whispered longingly, terror and shock choking you up until you closed your eyes again.

\---

“Oi, look at me.” The scrawny boy flicked a flashlight in and out of your eye. You stared at him, too lethargic to blink. You watched his clear blue eyes as he pulled and pushed at your face, analyzing you like he would a piece of evidence. That’s all you were now, though — evidence. 

“They took Redbeard,” you finally managed to say, after Sherlock turned away to reach for a blanket. He pulled it around you hastily, with inexperience, and it hung off one side of your cold body. You didn’t bother to reposition it. 

“They’ve got to, he’s evidence. Might’ve taken something from the killer.” 

The word ‘killer’ brought your parent’s sickly stare back to you, and you proceed to vomit, ejecting your stomach contents in an effort to forget. He managed to pull an empty vase from your mantel to your lips, and you heaved until only spittle ran from your mouth. It tasted sour, and you could still only taste blood. 

“They're gon’ put ‘im down, won’t they? Put Redbeard down. Ain’t fair, en’t it…” your words had been boiled down into an incomprehensible slur of syllables between sobs. Your head fell forwards onto Sherlock’s shoulder, and he didn’t move away like you thought he would. Instead, he placed a spindly hand on your back, and then another, holding you close. You could feel him, strong against your shaky body, and for the first time you felt security again.


	9. ix - Cherish

The dog panted while trying to hop up your body, as if unaware that he was injured at all. Your fingers kneaded the fur behind his ears as he yipped. Sherlock’s parents had been reluctant, but after seeing your teary face, they had allowed you to bring the dog to the airport to say goodbye. However the entire exchange had been awkward—they tried to be kind to you the entire car ride, but you hadn’t really wanted to talk since your parents’d been dead. 

Sherlock had never been the one to initiate conversations; the two of you were forced to stare blankly at each other. You heard tinny music and turned to look, grateful for the interlude of awkward eye contact.

Your younger brother sat in the airport’s chairs, furiously tapping away at his Gameboy. Finally feeling obligated to say something, you sighed.

“He en’t wanna realize what happen’d. He still thinks mum ‘n dad are away. Comin’ back and that.”

“Well, that’s stupid.” Sherlock didn’t particularly seem relieved to hear you talking again, but he stopped slumping. He lifted his head and chewed on the inside of his lips. “It’s not as if death is something to shy away from. It’s a natural occurrence.”

“Yeah, well, old ‘n sick people en’t been done away with by crazy people, huh?”

You hadn’t meant to snap, but Sherlock got the hint. His bony shoulders slumped forwards again. Redbeard finally tired himself out and let his head rest in your lap, tongue lolled out with sweaty pants filling the silence. You wondered if he even knew what he’d bit into. A killer. 

The coppers had said it was a robbery gone wrong. Your parents had walked in at the wrong time, and out of desperation, the crook had slashed at them. If you’d just been home, then maybe—

“They have him, though. Custody and that through the DNA Redbeard got. It’s not as if you or Nathaniel are in danger.”

Your brother didn’t even bother to look up at the sound of his name, too immersed in his game. It reminded you of Sherlock’s behavior, minus a test tube or three. But you could only scowl.

“I’m headed to _America_. I don’t care ‘bout bein’ in _danger_.” Redbeard whined as your hands stopped moving, and you hastily resumed your scratching. “My auntie en’t no cup o’ tea either. She’s a right—”

“America?” he suddenly blurted out, interrupting you. You raised your eyebrows. “I thought you said you were headed to Wales.”

“What? I en’t never said that, dummy!” it was the most emotion you’d felt since the incident: annoyance. You pulled your hands away from Rebeard’s shaggy fur and pushed him gently. “D’you even bother to listen t’ me?!”

“When did you…?” he scratched in his mop of curly hair, brow furrowed.

It was hopeless. You sighed angrily, turning back to Redbeard, who had started to squirm after you took your attention off of him. “At least Redbeard cares about me.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t care,” he muttered. But you couldn’t quite hear him over the sudden screech that your Aunt Vera gave as she arrived—a glorious three hours late.

“Oh, my darling! What on Earth are you _wearing_?!”

“Ah,” you spat bitterly, keeping your eyes turned downwards. “There she is.”

Vera had never been fond of children, but she wasn’t about to ruin her public image by turning down two orphans. Your father’s older sister was the closest (if an aunt living all the way in Manhattan counted as ‘close’) family you had. Of course, you’d begged Sherlock’s parents to adopt you and Nate, but they didn’t have enough custodial power. You’d also begged Vera not to take you away, but arguing with her was like trying to put out a wildfire with a pint of gin. Futile.

“Trousers! Good lord, can you call yourself a lady? And Nathaniel! How rude of you not to greet your new mother!”

“Ya’ en’t my mum,” was all he said, continuing to play his game. You felt vibrations in the growing dog’s body as he started to growl. You turned to look at Sherlock sadly, shouldering your bag. He stood hastily. 

“I guess this is it,” you said. Then, as an extra jab, “unless you thought I was just movin’ away for the weeken’.”

“I told you, I didn’t forget entirely.” He desperately looked for something in his jacket pocket as your Aunt started to openly weep, her wispy thin husband (the third one, you believed) patting her on her thick fur coat. You ignored her. He thrust out crumpled papers at you, so suddenly that you nearly dropped them. Unfolding them excitedly showed you…!

Musical notes. A composition. Scribbles and scratches lined the musical staff, but it wasn’t as if you knew how to read it anyways. You turned the paper this way and that, looking for anything meaningful. Your nose wrinkling made him flush a bright red.

“I composed it myself, all right? It’s a bit messy, but I only just got the idea. And it’s best played on a violin. Besides, if you don’t want it, it’s useful tinder if you needed to make an emergency fire.” He stopped himself from rambling further, shutting his mouth as his face practically glowed. 

For the first time in 8 months, you genuinely smiled.

“Thanks, Sherlock. I’ll cherish it, yeah?”

You leant forwards and hugged him, trying to drown out the horrified gasp your aunt made (‘ _why is she holding such a raggedy looking boy?! Is he homeless? Does he have fleas? Oh, Daniel! Hold me!_ ’). When you leant away, you found him to be frowning.

“…stay safe in America, all right? Don’t let the bloody gits turn you boring n’ stupid, yeah?” The Southerner’s accent he’d tried to adopt slipped away as he spoke quickly, trying to get the words out in time. You felt as if you were Cap’n Redbeard again, shoving him off into pillows as he screeched nonsense at you.

You dabbed at your eyes, refusing to cry. You couldn’t stop smiling. 

“‘ll try.”

You stood, taking Nate’s hand and jerking him away from the Gameboy’s controls. After you reached the terminal, you couldn’t bear it and turned back. His lanky figure swayed with Redbeard whimpering at his feet, struggling to pull free from his leash. You waved, clutching the paper to your chest like a lifeline.

Only later did you realize that it was meant to be a love song.


	10. x - Charity

Vera had been just as cruel as you expected. You couldn’t stand her whining and moping, or her constant dramatic outbursts. You especially hated when she criticized you for everything that you did. You would always try to protect your brother if she tried picking on Nate, but she’d throw you in your room before you could get the words out. You were a princess who was locked up in a tower, a dragon lurking on the outside. Your knight in shining armour, however, was 5500 kilometers away.

“Sherlock!” you said brightly when he finally picked up. You tried to keep your voice low so that Vera wouldn’t hear.

“What is it this time? I’m fairly busy.” But you knew that if he were actually busy, he wouldn’t have picked up in the first place.

“Vera locked me in my room again. I got bored.”

“Ah, I see. What did you do this time?” he wasn’t scolding you as Vera often did. He was curious. You could hear the smirk across the phone. You grinned as well. He wouldn’t know, but these phone calls saved you. These little acts of charity kept you going; even if you would never admit it.


	11. xi - Embrace

You were 9 when you left England. 9 years later, you headed right back. Vera’s face had turned such an intricate shade of red when you told her that you’d almost wanted to take a picture, but you managed not to. Nate, a technical prodigy, had been accepted at MIT when he was 16—so you had nothing holding you as a princess in Vera’s stupid, glass-walled Manhattan tower any longer. Legally an adult, you flew off to Cambridge without looking back.

However, you hadn’t expected to be so unwelcome in your own home country.

“Miss, we need to check your bags.”

“What is there to check? It’s a bloody violin! Even you can tell that, if you’ve got some eyes in you.” Your accent had become slightly neutralized by being surrounded by Americans, but some part of you was still stubborn enough to hold onto it. The old man at the gate shook his head.

“It’s security protocol. Miss, please, calm down or I will get secur—”

“Relax, Leonard. Unless a violin will be leaking MI6’s secrets?”

Leonard—you supposed his name was, because you hadn’t bothered to read his nametag—stammered as a lanky dark figure swooped in from the side. 

“Mr. Holmes! I-I apologize, I’ll be letting her through then. Yes. Good day.”

You jerked your violin case away from his prying fingers, huffing as you pulled your suitcase through the gate. You glanced over—upwards, as he’d grown even taller—and grinned.

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

He walked briskly without looking behind. He didn’t respond either, but he did push the door open wider behind him so that you’d have more time to get through. You shivered as you walked into the drizzling air. You’d forgotten this certain aspect of home.

“…Cambridge.” He glared at you pointedly as you shivered, despite the bus shelter providing some level of dryness. “Are you listening?”

“What?” you pushed a damp strand of hair out of your face. He scowled.

“Why didn’t you check the weather before leaving Manhattan? You haven’t changed in the slightest, you know.”

You smiled sheepishly, tucking your hands deeper into your pockets as a chilly wind breezed through the shelter. “Ya en’t either, Sherlock. Some things never change.”

He sighed pointedly before opening his jacket, grasping you from behind and pulling you in close. You yelped with surprise and stumbled backwards, your breathing constricted as he pulled the jacket shut over you.

“Really, I don’t know why you decided to come all the way back for university. Did you expect me to be enrolled in idiotic classes, too? Besides, the only thing that doesn’t change is the fact that there will always be change.”

You laughed as he tried to pretend as if nothing had happened. You leant your head back into his chest, enjoying the warm embrace. You’d let him play his little game, too.

“I know you graduated already, Sherlock. You’re a genius, ‘n all that. Yadda yadda.”

“I don’t believe you understand the true extent of my skills.”

“Yadda yadda.”

You stayed like that until the bus came, and even then, he wouldn’t leave your side, as if afraid to lose you again. He needn’t worry; you weren’t going anywhere.


	12. xii - Smile

“What are you doing?”

You turned to look at Sherlock, head cocked inquisitively. He merely scowled, his sunken but bright blue eyes making the look even more frightening.

“You’re smiling like a git.”

“I’m just excited to be back in England after all these year. You wouldn’t _believe_ what the Americans eat.” You shuddered and resumed looking around, drinking in the familiar shops and new faces excitedly. Sherlock walked beside you, but a little ways to the right, as if embarrassed by your presence. You corrected this by trotting forwards and throwing your arms around his, so that he was forced to drag you along.

“C’mon Sherlock, you’re the one who needs t’ be smiling here. I en’t seen you smile in a near decade!”

“And you’ll wait a decade more. Let go of me.”

“Don’t be like that. C’mon, a little cheeky grin, for me?”

He glared at you disgustedly and you laughed, having missed his touchiness.

“Alright then, Sherlock. Some day, eh?”

You walked ahead of him, gasping at the sight of a new candy shoppe that had recently moved into the countryside town. He watched as you stood outside the glass windows, looking very much like your snotty younger self. He pressed his lips together tightly to conceal the smile, turning his face into his jacket collar. What he was unaware of was the highly reflective glass that you were watching him in. You smiled gently, but said nothing.


	13. xiii - Understanding

“You two seem so boring, y’know?”

Over Skype, the conversation was a little more crackly and stuttering than it would be in real life. But Maryssa was one of the friends you had actually liked in America, and you had Skype called her soon after returning to England.

“How so, Ryss?” you asked, lazily running your hand through your hair. She laughed a little, the sound jittery with the poor connection from countryside Internet.

“What did you just say you did for your date today?”

“One: it wasn’t a date. We were just spending time together. And two: I’ll only say it one more time. I did some reading while he did some experiments. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” she mimicked, in a horrid imitation of an English accent. She giggled again. “Seriously? That’s what old people do. No, that’s what strangers do! Are you sure the two of you are dating?”

“Well, I never asked him, per se. And I don’t think we’re dating.”

“Oh my god!” she gasped, “have you even kissed him? What do you mean you’re not dating?! You’re crazy for him!”

“No, I haven’t,” you admitted, feeling red in the face. “But that’s not the point! The point is that he’s my friend, and he’s important to me. Don’t matter if we’re an item or not.”

The lag staggered Ryss’ words and gestures some, but you got the gist. “Yeah, he’s important enough for you to mope about him for 9 years in a different continent. You love him, but he doesn’t love you back?”

The question, to Ryss’ surprise, did not faze you in the slightest. Instead, you shrugged and smiled, the expression almost too blurry to see through your computer’s webcam.

“It don’t matter if he doesn’t ‘love me back’. I understand him, and he gets me. It’s been that way since we were wee todds, and it hasn’t changed. Well, he’d say that of course it’s changed, because time and space and human minds are constantly dynamic, but that’s not the point.”

“Wow,” Ryss breathed, leaning back in her chair. She shook her head. “You’re a weirdo, you know that?”

A grin quirked at your lips. “He’s a bigger one.”

“Guess weirdos understand each other better, hm?”


	14. xiv - Caring

Despite adamantly telling Ryss that you cared little about your relationship with Sherlock, as long as you at least had one, you were starting to feel a little insecure about it. Because she was right. In the 9 years you had been away, you had started to nurture a love for the boy that you had only known over phone lines. It was ridiculous and stupid of you, frankly, but the heart wants what it wants.

“You’re acting strange.”

“Huh?” You tore your eyes away from the droplets of racing rain on the window and glanced to Sherlock, who had stopped playing. You noticed a pen still tucked behind his ear and assumed that he was still in the middle of composing. 

You were an adult, now, but you were still orphaned—so you had started dorming up with Sherlock and his parents. You always mentioned getting your own place, but they talked you down so violently that you stopped bringing it up. They practically scooped you up as a Holmes addition. Maybe they thought you could placate Sherlock if you were around.

You hung around Sherlock often, making sure not to disturb him to make up for the sudden invasion of privacy. The image of the sheet music lying on his desk reminded you of the composition he had gifted you when you had left. Now that you thought about it, the tune he had just been playing was reminiscent of the one he had written 9 years ago.

“You.” He pointed the bow at you sternly. “You’re never this quiet unless something’s on your mind.”

“En’t nothing on my mind.”

“And you’re a liar as well, then?” he commented dryly. He clicked his tongue slightly. “Are you going to tell me what you’re thinking about?”

“Definitely not,” you snapped, worried that he might figure it out by… well, however he figured things out by. He always found out in the end. Maybe it was your saving grace that Sherlock never seemed to figure out anything pertaining to feelings, which was the only thing you were capable of harbouring from him. You were preparing yourself to be subjected to an onslaught of questions before Sherlock merely hummed, picking up his violin. 

“That’s it?” you asked, bewildered. His note trailed off and he breathed in—a sign of annoyance—but you were confused. Normally he’d be probing the inner depths of your mind to figure you out. You even expected him to lift you up and shake you upside down for answers.

“What, did you not want me to keep off of it?” he asked touchily, back turned. “Don’t be fickle. You’re irritating enough as it is.”

He continued to play, and you realized that he was showing his act of caring by not asking you about it further. In his own indirect and shamelessly selfish way, he was telling you that you could tell him when you were ready. You smiled a little and turned your gaze back out the window, closing your eyes and listening to the melody.


	15. xv - Peace

You didn’t think that Sherlock even knew what peace _was_. Frankly, he wouldn’t even be William Sherlock Scott Holmes if he hadn’t been spending his days running after crooks and robbers. Still, Sherlock wouldn’t be Sherlock if he weren’t ready to surprise you time after time. It was rainy, as it always was in Northern England, and the countryside seemed a bit more quiet than usual as a breath of fog blew over the land. You were spending your time at Sherlock’s house, which was still his parents’ house, but they were always glad to see you. 

“You en’t sick, are you?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

You walked around his bed and pressed a hand to his forehead. He slapped it away lazily, without much vigour, and you were only growing more suspicious.

“No cases? No reading? No bloody experiments?”

“I’m sleepy,” was his drawling response. As an afterthought, he added, “and you’re not helping me much.”

“Who’re you and what’ve you done to Sherlock?” you gasped jokingly. Still, his quiet behaviour was a bit worrisome and you leant a bit closer to his face. You were fully aware that he probably hadn’t slept in days, but the idea of Sherlock doing such a human thing as napping was mind blowing. “Sherlock, if you’re depressed or summat like it, you can tell me.”

“I am not _depressed_ ,” he retorted, sounding offended by your diagnosis. He rolled over, his sheets rustling loudly. “I am _fatigued_.”

“Now you sound all whiny like Mike.” You put your hands on your hips and waited for the reaction.

He sat up sharply like you’d plugged a wire into him. “I am _not_ like that blasphemy _Mycroft_! How dare you utter such an insinuation!”

He sunk back into the bed as you began to laugh, quieting the giggles behind a hand. So he was all right after all. You patted his knee and made to leave, before he reached out, his cold and spindly fingers wrapping around your wrist. You looked down, surprised.

“Summat you need there, Sleepin’ Beauty?”

“Lie down.”

“What?”

“Are you absolutely slow?” he jeered snidely, his hand slipping from your wrist. He sighed loudly. “You’ve been running around the house all morning, cleaning and cooking and doing other nonsense for my parents. Rest.”

“You care ‘bout me, Sherlock?” you poked, but your heart was glowing and it showed with a quirky smile on your lips. He scowled and rolled over again, pulling the quilt over his head.

“It is imperative that the human body receive sleep in order to rebuild—”

“All right, all right!” you interjected, his muffled speech a bit funny coming from underneath a mass of unmoving blankets. Tentatively, you slipped yourself into his warm blanket den. He made no move to hug you or anything childish, but you could feel his rhythmic breathing against you, and it was peaceful.


	16. xvi - Gentle

Being gentle didn’t even seem to be a part of Sherlock’s vernacular. He was brash and blunt, honest to a grating fault, and seemed to have the cursed gift of offending anybody he came across. You knew this, which was why you expected him to yell at you when you felt him tugging at something underneath you.

“My bad,” you mumbled sleepily, trying to rouse yourself. You’d fallen asleep on the couch after attempting to hammer out a thesis you should have finished at a time much earlier than now, and had probably landed on one of his papers by accident. “Gimme a sec…”

“Shut up.”

The couch disappeared from underneath you and your arm shot out to find balance. Your hands grazed his hair and he sighed loudly with annoyance as you tried to form a coherent sentence in your drowsiness. His grip tightened underneath your knees and you found your arm being plopped around his neck, rolling your head towards his chest in a safe and protective manner.

“Whassit—Sherl, ‘m bein kidnapped…” You kicked feebly and he groaned.

“I said, _shut up_. Honestly.” He scoffed in your ear and you felt your legs sway as stairs creaked under foot. You managed to crack an eye open long enough to catch a glimpse of his dark shirt.

“You takin’ me to bed?” you slurred jokingly. “‘s a crime to take advant’ge of women.”

He shushed you with the same haughty disdain, but softly. You groaned slightly, curling closer towards the warmth as you braced against the cold air of the old house. He deposited you on a bed with grace you didn’t even know he possessed. Your fingers curled around his shirt before dropping away as you fell back asleep, reassured by the gentle scent in your nose. 

Maybe he never said things right or maybe he was just an ass thick and through. Despite it, he had some softer sides to him, and it was just your luck that you’d drifted out of consciousness before you could catch him laying the soft kiss to your temple.


	17. xvii - Kindness

All throughout the day, people were treating you too nicely.

Maybe it was your time on the gritty streets of Manhattan, surrounded by obnoxious twats who ‘were walkin’ here!’. But it only served to annoy you further when people kept going out of their way for you. Your newly rented flat (since you had decided that the coddling from Sherlock’s parents resembled coddling from in-laws far too much) was full of sweets and sandwiches and you couldn’t walk two footsteps without somebody moving aside for you or giving you a strained smile. But you couldn’t blame them for worrying.

Today was the anniversary of your parents’ murder.

Back in the States, you never thought too deeply of it, assuming that your parents wouldn’t have wanted you to grieve. Sometimes you’d call your brother and have a moment of solidarity before hanging up and going back on with your day. You’d gotten used to it, the best way you could cope with getting used to having your parents knifed up, and being polished on a pedestal was not something you had incorporated into this coping. It was irritating you, these niceties. 

You had to spend a full ten minutes of your time to convince the Holmes to let you walk to the graveyard rather than let them drive you. There hadn’t been a moment of peace for you all day. You’d resorted to unplugging your landline, unable to tolerate its incessant ringing as people called to check in on you. When you had, people began to knock on your door to make sure you hadn’t offed yourself. In the end, you decided it’d be best to slip away entirely.

The English air was cold and heavy on you, familiar in its perpetual fog. It wasn’t laced with grease and taxi fumes like the air was in the cities. There was sweetness in each misty breath. The greenery was unkempt on the poorly paved road, seemingly deathless as they sprawled out the rolling hills. The colour was practically sickening, so vivid in emerald, taking up your entire eye. The marsh country had dried some, in comparison to your day, but the faraway sounds of crickets chirping gave you some peace of mind. The flowers tucked under your arm were collecting dew like stamps as you walked onwards.

The cast iron gate creaked irritably when you closed it, gingerly, as if it were an old hag reprimanding you for doing nothing at all. Your parents had been buried together in a far end of the lot, matching oblong headstones overgrown with ragged dandelion weeds. To your surprise, somebody was already there, crouched over your father’s. The figure was willowy and dark, looking much like a raven come to crow at its prey. You stopped a wary distance back.

“Sherlock?” you asked hesitantly, unsure of yourself but having a gut feeling.

He jumped and turned, obviously not having expected you. He scowled at your wry expression and shoved his hands into his dark jacket’s pockets, a tinge of colour flashing across his deathly pale face.

“I was just seeing if there were any damages done in your absence. That’s all.”

Despite the sombre mood, a cheeky grin slipped up onto your face. You walked over next to Sherlock and laid the bouquet down between your mother and father, the way you used to lay between them during the coldest winter nights as a child. Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable in the situation, shifting his weight restlessly from foot to foot as you knelt, a hand on your mother’s gravestone. Wordlessly, you picked up a twig and began to diligently scrape lichen out of the engraving of her name. 

“There could be such thing as an afterlife.”

“What?” You turned and looked up at Sherlock, who looked surprised at his own sentence, as if he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Hastily, he continued, averting his striking sky blue eyes—striking because you never did see the blue sky at home, and because they were so piercing—to the ground.

“Surely, you’re not so ignorant as to not have heard of the multiverse theory?” In response to your stunned silence, he scowled, continuing in a lecturer’s tone. “In an infinite sequence of series, there’s a parallel universe where your parents are both well. So you mustn’t need to cry or anything moronic.”

“I’m not crying.”

He glanced at your face to make sure before looking away again, even going so far as to turn his whole body ‘round. His back spoke to you disgruntledly. “Well. If you _were_ thinking about doing so, you shouldn’t.”

You couldn’t help a small laugh, the sound seeming so out of place on the land of mourning. 

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

It was the first thing you had heard from somebody that wasn’t drenched with sympathy or pity. He was just saying something he thought; something he thought that might make you feel better; something he thought of as he thought of you. That was the kindness you were seeking. 

That was the kindness you already had.

“See?” you gushed in a hushed voice to your mother, knowing full well that Sherlock was judging you for talking to two inanimate rocks. Still, you were overflowing with happiness and felt as if they could’ve been listening in one of Sherlock’s alternate universes. “See, mum and dad? I’ll be fine.”

“Are you quite done?” Sherlock sneered as you stood up and linked your arm around his. He allowed you to drag him along, still not quite meeting your gaze as you laughed, the sound warming the ground of spirits.

“Yeah.”


	18. xviii - Strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole story was written before Series 4 came out, so Redbeard is just Sherlock's dog—the facts concerning Sherrinford do not take place at all in this story.

It wasn’t long before things went wrong.

They found you wandering in the town’s centre, staring into a shop absent-mindedly and congesting the sidewalk traffic. Your hands were red and frozen into fists. Sherlock’s mother tried to warm them up in mittens she found for you, but you said nothing, allowing the knitted gloves to fall off your hands without any reaction at all. 

The old inspector was a man you adored. He took care of you and Nathaniel, your brother, well enough during the ordeal of your youth. He’d always sneak you toffees under the table during the court advances, grudgingly allowing Nate to play his Gameboy during proceedings so that the boy wouldn’t complain or cry. You found that you couldn’t bother to look at him as he expressed his sincerest ap’lgies, grief etched into the wrinkles of his poorly aged face. You only hoped distantly that he was in good health, blatantly ignoring the words coming out of his lips, which were shaped like two kidney beans lain across one another. Only one thing latched onto your sedentary brain.

_“Aye, he were a curious bloke if ev’r. Betwixt y’ n’ me, he was an invalid of s’rts, gone slow as a babe. Oh, niow I remember yer face, girl, ‘n you lookee niow like ye’ did th’n. Giv’n that day in partick’ler, I’da turned back the clock, aye if I would… consequence you be breakin’ my hart now with that look as ye’ did back’n. My sorry girl, yer’ mum and pops en’t deserve it. Ye’ en’t deserve this, my girl. We’ll-a find the bast’rd, we will.”_

To which you simply replied, “that’s very nice,” as you had not been listening.

Even Mycroft of all people had succumbed in an attempt to console you, awkwardly expressing a colloquial ‘hullo’: a greeting he had neglected to give you since you’d been back in the country. He laid a thin quilt over you in a useless fashion, leaving your toes out in the cold. But the clumsy gesture reminded you too much of Sherlock and suddenly you burst out into tears, which was, understandably, far out of the elder Holmes’ brother’s realm. He excused himself in a lacklustre, apologetic way, and you lay alone in discordant sobs. 

You called your brother, laying it out in the simplest terms. It was futile to elaborate or say anything else. He asked if you were all right, and you replied ‘dunno’. You asked if he was. He also said that he wasn’t sure. The two of you shared solemn silence, and then you hung up. Simple. If only everything could be as cut and dry as a disconnected phone line.

The Holmes didn’t trust you to be by yourself, and for good reason, for you would’ve starved to death if left on your own. You spent your days lying awake, absent-minded, and when you weren’t doing that you were sleeping. Time was its meaningless construct again. Time did not exist in your sad, sorry ass state. They began to call you Havisham, whispered pitifully behind closed doors. At least Miss. Havisham got the treat of death. You were still here.

 _He_ woke you up by rolling you out of the bed unceremoniously, jerking the quilt out from underneath you in a perfect fashion so that you’d fly right out. You winced with dull pain as the floorboards met sharply with your body, your bones protesting sharply after having gotten accustomed to their inactive lifestyle. Slowly, you got to your fours, sitting up like a suckling toddler as Sherlock knelt in front of you. His face, oddly tanned, was wrinkled in disgust.

“Pathetic. This is what you’ve become? Surely you’re better than this. You aren’t mundane like the rest of them. Why are you acting like you are?”

You said nothing. He scowled and snapped his fingers in front of your eyes. You blinked slowly as he reached into his breast pocket and flashed a light in and out of your eyes, making sure you hadn’t gotten a concussion. 

“Look,” he muttered as he put the penlight away. His sickeningly blue eyes levelled with yours. You often never faced him like this, too short, and saw a small half-healed stitch on his forehead that he’d probably gotten in some fantastic tale. You stared at it as he spoke. “… know what happened. But you’re not in danger. They’ll catch him soon, so stop moping about it.”

“Redbeard… y’ put him down?”

It was the first thing you’d said in a week. It came out hoarse because of your unused throat, but you didn’t bother making yourself any clearer.

He sighed, seemingly with defeat. In a limber, exaggerated fashion he sat hard, cross legged, his arms hugging his body as he stared at you like he might a block of evidence. 

“We had to,” he stated curtly. “It was years ago. The dog was ill. It was more merciful than to let him die slowly.”

“Yeah, I know… he went to sleep ‘s all.” You spoke dreamily, your eyelids feeling heavy with lethargy. With a muttered curse, Sherlock suddenly cupped your face in his large hands, tilting your chin up. A whisper of a dream told you excitedly that he’d kiss you, but you got quite the opposite. Sharply, he smacked you across the cheeks—front, back, and then upside the chin! You stared wide-eyed and alert for the first time since hearing the news as he shouted.

“The man who killed your parents has broken out of prison. Big deal. You are _better_ than this, woman, so are you going to continue to lie around or are you going to _do_ something about it? Or have I made the mistake of thinking you to be extraordinary when you’ve been ordinary all along?”

He allowed it to sit in for a moment before letting go of you. You touched cool palms to your sore cheeks, narrowing your eyes at Sherlock.

“Y’ hit me,” you announced stupidly, your startled brain still reeling in an attempt to catch up with events. Sherlock sighed disdainfully.

“You’ve got a thick skull. It’s nothing you can’t seem to handle.”

He got up and began pacing around the room, messing with the knickknacks you’d thrown aside. You stared at him from behind. He was tall, but lanky; stick skinny, a mop of dark hair attached to comical limbs, and with a hunched frame that made you feel as if a strong breeze must gust him over. Still, his words carried the strength you lacked, and gave you the strength to build yourself back up.

He shouted as you slapped him upside the back of the head, proceeding to clutch at it as he whirled back around to face you.

“That’s what you get for hittin’ a lady!” you roared, scolding. He opened his mouth to complain before his eyes caught on the restored light in your eyes. He settled for scowling instead and brushed you off of him.

“I hit some _body_ ,” he agreed smarmily, “but it was hardly a lady.”

“ _Sher—_!”

Most people can’t do it alone. Sherlock was no exception. He was a flame stuck in a human body, and that corporal moralization grounded him to the same broken tides that life brought to its sufferers. Yet, the two of you had each other, and that was all you needed to get back to your feet.


	19. xix - Warmth

“You’ve been down here for hours.”

You jumped at the sound of his voice, the excess coffee in your blood heightening your anxiety a touch. The scream in your throat caught when you realized it was just Sherlock, his willowy frame darting into your place like a mischievous shadow. Irritably, you sighed as he sat next to you heavily. His insatiable curiosity you dubbed as nosiness promptly lead him to pull the papers out of your hands and sift through them, and you watched tiredly as his facial expression fell flat with disappointment at the sight of your reference notes.

“Boring. Boring. _Boring_ —ah?”

Your parent’s case file that you had tried to hide popped out like a malicious jack in the box. Frantically, you lunged for it, but Sherlock was the lankier one and was able to keep them out of your reach.

“Sherlock!” you complained as he dangled the old file away from you. “C’mon, gimme it back now you bloody—!”

“I thought the inspector told you to stay away from the case?”

“Y’ really think I’m going to do what the old man tells me to?!”

You swiped at it again, but knowing that your opponent was Sherlock, you promptly gave up. With a scowl, you sat back in the couch, crossing your arms. He cocked a thin brow, waiting for an explanation, which you finally coughed up like you might a wad of bad spit. 

“They en’t found the guy yet,” you muttered, “ so I hoped that lookin’ at what the detectives said about his motive back’en would help.”

“They haven’t found the perpetrator yet because he’s in _hiding_. They’ll flush him out soon enough. It’s not even an interesting mystery. It’s just a waiting game. It’s bo—”

“Boring, yeah yeah. I know.”

With a suspicious look, Sherlock dropped the papers onto his seat as he stood. You hadn’t given him the key to your place, but he’d made one for himself anyways, and it dangled in his skeletal fingers.

“Then I’ll leave you to your boring business.”

“Whatever.”

You sat up and tapped the papers together disgruntledly, expecting to hear the front door slam shut. Instead, some clanking came from inside the kitchen. You turned to look and saw a flash of his dark coat in the hallway. The most Sherlock knew about cooking was about its molecular-based chemistry, and you had a horrifying vision that he was going to start cooking up something suspicious—or worse, flammable. Reluctantly, you got up from your seat and moved to the kitchen, peering in. It was empty. Then—

“Agh!” you screeched.

“Would you just be quiet?!” 

Sherlock sighed, annoyed as you whirled around with a hand over your chest. His heavy black trench coat swung on your shoulders. He’d rolled his sleeves up unevenly and pushed past you back into the kitchen. He walked to the stove and you then noticed the kettle, along with one of your simple plain mugs sitting on the counter.

“Y’ makin’ me tea, Sherlock?” you asked slowly, almost wondrously. He gave you a flat look.

“No, I’m boiling the blood of Kentish vampires in order to summon Satan. _Yes_ , I’m making you tea. I hear that it’s rubbish for your health to be up late reading about murderers.”

“If I recall, that’s exactly what _you_ do, Sherlock.”

“Who said I was ordinary enough to be affected by simple health problems such as—?!” He stopped himself, clearing his throat and regaining his composure with a sharp breath. “Nevermind. Green tea has anti-oxidants. It’ll be good for your dark circles.” He gave you a fake smile to which you frowned.

“You can’t go ‘round pointing out a woman’s flaws like that.”

“I just did, didn’t I?”

He thrust the mug into your hands, giving you the raised eyebrow look that demanded that you challenge him. You weren’t a quitter, but you knew defeat when it came crashing down your door with a stolen key, so you merely smiled wearily.

“Fine, then.”

The tea was hot, totally scalding, but it wasn’t terrible to your great surprise. It seemed that Sherlock could get a mundane task such as making tea right after all. It warmed you from the inside pleasantly on the way down. What really warmed your heart, though, was seeing him return to the couch. He picked up the file, pretending to be disinterested, but you saw light flash in his midday sky eyes. It was as if you could read his thoughts as they whizzed through his mind, letters and pictures dancing in his corneas.

“Well?” he demanded, turning to look at you. You snapped out of your daze as he scowled. “Do you want my help or not?”

“You’ll help me?” you asked, surprised yet again. “I thought it ‘s too _boring_ for you.”

“It is,” he agreed eagerly, with a haughty sniffle. “But if it might get you to shut up about it, I might as well do a favour to the greater community.”

Despite the fact that you had never talked about it to anybody but him, and even then, only in a glancing way, you knew his attempt at kindness when you saw it. His coat was light on your shoulders as you sat down next to him, gently putting aside your mug and curling up to his side. He shifted (with an air of familiar grudging tolerance) so that he could read while you leant your head down onto his shoulder. You closed your eyes, quietly enjoying the warmth his body gave off, fully aware that you might not be able to feel that soft warmth in the days to come.


	20. xx - Caress

It had been a sunny day—a rare one of few—which was why it stood out to you so sharply. 

You would never forget this day. 

At the time, you hadn’t known it would become _that_ day. _The_ day. The one that would haunt you and follow you, forever engrained. The day that you would die, you would still remember this particular day out of many. 

Everything had started like any other. You woke up at a ridiculously late hour, got yourself ready, and immediately checked your calls and texts for any news. You were disappointed, like all the days previous when your voicemail was entirely empty. The Twitter feed was blowing up about a trend you didn’t care for, so you threw your phone aside and got out of bed. Then Sherlock would come rushing in, at any random hour following that, a new story on his tongue or a new whim to drag you along in. Normally you would lie in eager wait, but today was different. Today was a beautiful day.

So, following your own whim for once, you didn’t feel like waiting around for him. You left the house early, after fixing up your makeup and clothes, the good weather infusing you with some sense of obligation to look nice as well. The sun was warm on your lonely skin, and the wind was cool, giving you a good balance in temperature. It was a bit bright, but it allowed you to navigate the poorly paved path more easily than usual.

You didn’t have a bouquet this time around, having forgotten before you left, but you found a patch of wildflowers on the way. A melange of yellow and purple flowers hung in your hand as you walked leisurely, soaking in the rays of light from above. The stout gate was already open this time, enough so that you could walk through without touching the iron. Somebody else was probably here. A cloud floated over the sun, casting a dark shadow across the field as if the world were holding its breath for something. You stopped, those flowers falling to the ground as you saw him.

The figure standing in front of your parent’s grave was stocky, bullish like in brute size. Rippling musculature and a gigantic stature was not hard to miss or forget in the small town. That was not Sherlock, and you only knew one Englishman that looked like that.

“You _murderer!_ ”

He whirled around, his face swollen as if stung by a thousand bees. His jaw protruded and his lower lip hung like a bulldog’s, thick drool hanging in cobwebby lines. Your childhood memories of him were blotchy, probably because your focus had been to your parent’s grisly death that time. Still, you recognized him, and hatred flared in your blood as if each cell had ignited. Red stained your vision. Your hands, soft and tiny in comparison to his, balled into angry fists as you began to tremble. 

“How _dare_ you stand at their grave!” you screamed, raw, furious. “You’ve no right! You’ve no damn right to get to pay repentance when you killed ‘em, you murderer, you blasted—”

You only realized your mistake of confronting Beelzebub when he came hurtling at you, a cannon ball rattling towards the French fronts. Only, you were no army, you were one girl, and that man had spilled blood—your family’s blood—before. With a faint apologetic farewell to Nathaniel, you closed your eyes and braced yourself.

He hit you hard, knocking you to the ground as easily as one could topple a doll. Something—some _things_ broke in you as your back hit the gravelly road. Your vision cleared from black to his horrid face, his patchy stubble not enough to mask the wobbly infantile frown on his fat lips.

“Forgib me!” he wailed, a speech impediment clearly audible as he screamed down at you, hot spittle spraying you like the rain you were so used to. “Forgib me, Mithus, forgib me…”

His weight on your injured chest was crushing and you couldn’t reply, totally unable to breathe. Panicked, your hands scratched his tree trunk-like thighs on either side of you as you silently begged for him to get off of you. He began to cry, this devil of a man, his tears splashing down on you in heavy droplets. 

“’m thowwy, en’t meant to hurt nobody, just wanted to thee the puppy you had, ‘m thowwy, my mommy told me to say thowwy, but I cuddn’t find y’, cuddn’t say thowwy…”

You couldn’t see anything now, blackness eating every last bit of life in your eyes, and your hands merely grabbed weak fistfuls of his ragged clothes. You doubted he even felt you underneath him. There was no strength left in you to move. He was going to kill you by sitting on you. Was this how you were destined to go? 

“En’t mean to hurt nobody, I en’t mean to hurt anybody no. Beliebe me Mithus, I en’t meant nuddin’ bad t’you.”

He was rocking back and forth on you, sobbing, each motion grinding your broken bones. Your hands fell from his sides and you could no longer feel the warmth of the sun. It was cold. It was so, so cold…

Your eyes fell shut. On your forehead, you could feel a faint touch, almost like Sherlock’s thin fingers running across your skin. You heard him, too, scoffing haughtily.

_What a stupid way to die._

You couldn’t help but agree, the feeling of his hand in yours the last thing you remembered before it was all empty once more.


	21. xxi - Need

A gunshot. 

It startled you awake, but after you did, you immediately regretted it. The pain in your chest and throat blazed into your neural pathways, but you weren’t even able to scream. Wet tears in your eyes blurred your vision into an ugly amalgamation of neon colours. But you could still see, if not barely. You were somehow still alive.

There was shouting and you wished you could raise your head—but it hurt too much. Everything was too much. The voices were too hard to tell apart; they were totally incoherent. Seeing was out of the question and you struggled to keep breathing. Another shot. Who was it?

You were hypersensitive to the pain and had to close your eyes, squeezing them shut as tears roiled over like bubbles of molten lava. Each breath was shallow at best, and you began to fear that you were taking your last each time. Your eyes shut, squeezing tightly as you tried to find some remnant of strength. The red of your eyelids was the only thing reminding you that you weren’t just roasting in Hell, and you began to count each breath. They grew faster and shorter each time. 

On the ninety-eighth one, you heard him.

“Where is she, damn it; where is that woman?!”

Sherlock. Sherlock, I’m here… I tried to raise my hand, but my entire body felt numb, as if I’d been splashing around the creek during the late days of November. I tried to concentrate to focus my thoughts from wandering away. The worst of the pain was concentrated below my breasts in my entire abdomen—probably the ribs, maybe something in the shoulder. My head hurt, too, the back of it searing like a split wound. I began to hear different things from different people. My mother’s laugh. My father’s smile. Their crooked but endearing English charm, I heard, and I soon began to realize that I would be joining them too. 

Was it really too late? Sherlock was here, but if he could just find me, thrown off into the grass… the man’s weight was off of me, so surely, they should be able to find me. But each ticking second brought more agonizing _pain_. And I didn’t want to accept it, no I did not, but if letting go for a second might quell the pain…? I never liked the easy way. Neither did you. We’re stubborn. But Nathaniel will be okay without us. Sherlock will be okay without us. They’re tough men, aren’t they? Without me, and without you, they’ll be okay…

But that doesn't mean that you won’t go without missing him.

“Sherlock,” you wheezed, the word enough to black you out for a moment. You were drowning in your blood, but coughing was too much, and you gurgled desperately. You managed to grasp what little consciousness you had left and said his name again, your pathetic version of a Hail Mary. If there were a patron saint for people of your type, you damn hoped they were listening. Your eyes opened back up to the blue sky, fluffy clouds rolling along without a care for you as you lay dying. Did the day look this beautiful at Golgotha? The world would turn even if you stopped breathing. It mattered none—you’d be chasing after the clouds soon enough if they didn’t find you. Last ditch efforts came now.

“ _Sherlock_.”

“Beneath the grove—have you checked there?!”

His voice grew closer. Desperation lined his aching syllables. You hadn’t heard him sound like that in ages, no. The last you remembered of that was when Redbeard had run off, excited by passing sheep, and the both of you had had to go down to the bogs to search for the dog. _“Redbeard!”_ the boy had shouted, and now he shouted your name.

Once more, you called back—“Sherlock”—in a way you never had before. You’d said his name plenty of times. Jokingly, angrily, softly—but never _this_ way. Never had you really _needed_ him. You’d _wanted_ him, since the start, from when you’d first wanted to play with him as the filthy playground pirate. Maybe sometimes you’d thought about wanting him more than that. But now it was more than that. It was needing him to save you or else you’d die. It was needing to see him a last time in case… 

Well, in case you died anyways.

“I’ve fyound ‘er!” a gruff voice called. Shadows flickered in your shallow gaze and a moan bubbled out past your lips, your broken idea of a ‘thank God!’. The salty taste of rust followed soon after and you choked on blood, spluttering, the idea of coughing already far too much for your broken ribcage to bear. Your body fought itself in an effort to keep itself running when everything was going down. 

The desperation in his voice was unlike anything you’d ever heard from him. It was even deeper than his calling for Redbeard had been. You cracked an eye open—only the left, because it hurt less—and met his eyes, which were bluer than the sky above him. Your lips drew up into a hopeless smile.

“Sherlock?” we breathed.

“Don’t speak, you madwoman.” His voice was low and hoarse as he grasped you on both sides of the face. I felt his touch, then, cold and pallid against our hot skin that burned with your blood. _My_ wretched, beautiful blood. He was careful not to move the head, fearing a spinal injury, because despite the pressure of our untimely demise, Sherlock was a smart man (to say the least), and he knew better than to let emotions toy with him. Emotions were abhorrent, an excrescence to humanity, and especially of no use to _him_. But his fingernails dug into our skin and you could tell that Sherlock… Stoic Sherlock, Smartass Sherlock—was breaking. Because of us. 

Because of you.

“Sher…”

It was too difficult to say the next part of his name. His grimace tightened as his hands gripped us in a way that almost hurt.

“I need you,” he blurted out, surprising us all. Sherlock had never said anything sentimental of the sort before. Maybe dying was a good thing, then, if we could see this side of him. Lowly, he continued rapidly, his voice so clear in your ears despite the haze of death. “Don’t you dare give up. You are not mundane. You are… so much. You are so much to me, so if you give up, I swear…”

Suffice to say, we weren’t going to make it. We already knew that from the start. But his eyes… they were beautiful. The skies of home were always overcast, but his eyes were always sharp with razor pitched clarity. He was everything. Sherlock was everything.

So maybe I’ll die. But that’s okay. You’ll go on. 

“Stay awake. Stay with me.” He kept talking to keep you conscious, patting you sharply on the cheek. It didn’t even smart, your brain screaming at you about the pain in your chest, as if you could’ve forgotten. Your eyes stayed open but your gaze was unfocused, staring up into his eyes like you might’ve done while cloudgazing. They were such an undecided blue that they seemed to melt. 

We can’t all make it. Some parts need to get left behind. But he needs you, and you need him.

We closed our eyes. I closed mine…

And later, you opened yours. Where I saw the big open sky, you were greeted by Sherlock’s eyes.


	22. xxii - Life

Nathaniel had flown in from Massachusetts as soon as he heard of your hospitalization, even going so far as to abandon his project, which you found uncharacteristic of him. It’d been years since you last saw him, due to his having left at the age of 16 to pursue a scholarship dedicated to gifted students, and he looked quite the same as he had those years ago. He had ragged hair the colour of your father’s and your same, brightly coloured eyes. A gruesome soul patch marred his face. You scowled when you saw him.

“Aw, no. Nate; you en’t never heard of a bloody haircut?!”

He whistled lowly as he saw you. He was tall now, amazingly so, towering over you as he looked you over.

“Sis, you look like shit.”

His accent had died away tremendously, replaced with the American tones, but he was your baby brother. Emotional tears welled in your eyes and he hugged you gingerly, taking care to avoid putting pressure on your injuries. 

“Aye, I feel like it too.”

“You okay?” he asked worriedly. It was another trait that you hadn’t expected him to learn—concern—what with his brain taken up with computer code and whatnot.

“Somewhat,” you admitted. Although you were immensely relieved to be alive, the events of what had happened still weighed heavily on you. He pulled away with a sigh and searched the room, found what he was looking for, and pushed the wheelchair to the bedside. 

“Hop on, then.”

It was nice to see something outside of your hospital room for a change, even if it were just the hospital halls. Slowly, you pulled the blanket draped across your legs upwards to shield yourself from the world. Nate wheeled you along at a dangerously fast velocity, chattering about his life at school and in general. You didn’t mind. He had never been this talkative to you before as a child, and it was nice to hear the great things that he’d been up to.

Suddenly, he braked hard, nearly toppling you forwards if you hadn’t gripped the arm rests. A figure had walked out in front of you, blocking your path.

“Hey!” Nate barked indignantly, “get the hell out of the way, dude!”

“ _Dude_?” The figure repeated disgustedly. You craned your sore neck up and saw Sherlock wrinkling his nose irritably. Nate also seemed to recognize him.

“Oh, man! I remember you. You’re that creepy guy my sis was always hanging around.”

“I am immensely relieved to see that you have grown into quite the… _considerable_ man, Nathaniel,” Sherlock remarked dryly. His eyes swept down to yours and the sarcastic smile immediately fell. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“N’where,” you lied. Sherlock gave you the look of ‘are you enough of an idiot to lie to _me_?’ and you sighed. “…the grounds.”

“Grounds of the graveyard?” he sneered, guessing correctly, as always. He looked to Nate, another uncustomary smile plastered across his narrow features. His eyes crinkled. “Allow me.”

“Uh, ‘scuse me?” Nate asked defensively. “You’re not her brother.”

“Yes, as I’d be extremely disappointed in myself if I were to share blood with such a pathetic lowlife. I already have a sissy for an elder brother, I’ve no need for another one.”

“Hey—!”

Sherlock had already nudged your younger brother away from the handles and began to cart you along like he might a shopping trolley. Nate caught up easily, annoyance flashing across his face. You sat helplessly, craning your neck up to watch their back-and-forth.

“Okay bro, what do you think you’re _doing_ —”

“ _Bro_? I assure you, we are not related—”

“Mr. Sherlock, then? You listen here, mate, you better fu—”

“Nate?” you interrupted abruptly, shooting him an uneasy smile. “Nevermind it. You can visit our folks another time.”

“Sis, he’s _kidnapping_ you,” he reminded loudly, and you were forced to turn away as Sherlock aggressively shot around a corner.

“He sure is,” you said bitterly, as Sherlock said nothing.

The small town hospital was quite far from the graveyard, as to be expected. The wheelchair did not cooperate with the path, catching on potholes and stray stones, until finally Sherlock gave up and carried you. He did so in his arms, despite your protests, citing your chest injuries to be a cause for concern if he did so by piggyback. You clung to him like a child, but your jaw was tight with unresolved tension. You didn’t think anything else could’ve been more awkward, unless he’d carried you in the nude or something of the sort. Luckily, the trip was short.

The scene’s yellow tape had been removed prior, leaving the yard the same as you remembered it. The gate was still half-open, giving you an apprehensive chill. Each grave was still unmoved in its place, their residents at home, as always. Your eyes drifted to the trees; in particular, they went to a single oak where the perpetrator had nearly killed you. Your gaze snapped back to your parents’ gravestones, sitting there innocently, not knowing what had happened so recently, so close by.

“Are you done?” Sherlock asked. He sounded annoyed, probably because you were pushing all of your weight onto him, your knees trembling as you struggled to stand. You looked back to the oak.

“…I almost died.”

He sighed through his nose as if he’d expected this dramatic monologue, but he said nothing to criticize you, to your surprise. You shook your head and looked back to your parents’ headstones. He followed as you began to limp towards them, continuing to help support you as your shoes sank into the soft soil.

“I really thought that it was all over. That I’d hit the end of the line, even when I wasn’t done or nothing… but I thought that I’d be kicking the bucket.”

“You didn’t die,” Sherlock replied bluntly. “You are still very much alive, in case you hadn’t realized.”

“To your eternal discomfort, eh…”

You took a step and nearly collapsed, the muddy marsh no place for your healing body. Sherlock caught you and groaned.

“What is it?” 

“Take me to that tree,” you heaved, sweat breaking out on your brow. “Where you found me last.”

“Why?”

“Sherlock, please.”

The utterance of your uncharacteristic pleading seemed to make him realize that it was important. Despite radiating reluctance, he helped you take slow, brutal steps, pausing with you as you gasped for breath. The imprint of your body had been left in the grass, a head and arms tracing the damp grass. You sank down to it, wetting your knees with dew. With some difficulty, you managed to put down the bouquet of flowers that had been hidden under your blanket.

“What are you mourning?” Sherlock blurted out, sounding as if he could no longer hide his curiosity. “You’re not dead.”

“I’m mourning _him_.”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock exclaimed, the shrill, incredulous tone of his voice making you wince in the quiet graveyard. He crouched next to you to get a better look at your face, making sure that you weren’t having a stroke. “O’Malley was an invalid. He was a murderer. He slaughtered your _parents_ , and he nearly killed _you_.”

“I haven’t forgotten now, Sherlock!” you snapped. You regretted yelling on sacred grounds and sighed, looking at the flowers where they rested against the knotted roots. The soft petals waved in the cool wind. “I en’t forget… but you en’t there to hear ‘im. He was apologising the whole time, that fool, sobbing for forgiveness…” You sighed regretfully. “En’t nobody deserve to go unnoticed.”

“You’re not saying that you forgive him?” he asked with disbelief.

“‘Course not! But I’m saying… he lost his life here, and at least one person has to remember him. That’s all.”

“You’re insane. No, you’re _sentimental_. That’s _worse_. What is it? Is it the morphine? The pain? What’s gone wrong with you?”

“Sherlock,” you sighed, but the tone was lighter. “I’m fine. You said it, didn’t you? I’m alive.”

“Obviously,” he countered, a bit childishly. You reached out for him, signalling that you wanted to get up. He lifted you. Only when you were alive could you do this with him—feel his arms around you and walk in time with him. You were dumb to think that taking the easy way out would be okay. Maybe Sherlock would’ve been fine without you, but there was no way you could go on without him.

You took a second to look back to the tree. Pity strained your soul, drowning out the bitterness you had pent up over the years. Anger had no place with you if you were to move on. The flowers looked beautiful against the tree, and you hoped that wherever he was, he was playing with dogs. You turned your head forwards again.

You held onto Sherlock tightly as he walked with you, mist clinging to both of you, cold totally forgotten.


	23. xxiii - Oneness

Consistent ruination of your life seemed to be habitual, at this point. Just when things started to go smoothly, a horrible tragedy would jump in like some sort of hell bent pigeon eager to ruin your day by shitting on you. 

It was all right at first. Nate spent a couple days with you before flying back to Massachusetts, unable to stay away from his project for long. You took your time healing, at any regular rate. Sherlock, however, had vanished—you assumed that he’d flown off to pursue a case elsewhere, and didn’t think much of it. 

Then began with the reticent Mycroft Holmes, appearing before you with a black umbrella dangling from his pudgy fingers. The incredibly riveting conversation with the eldest Holmes brother went as follows:

_“You are well, then?”_

_“Enough…?”_

_“Good. Very good.”_

And he continued to stare at you, a thin smile on his lips. The commiserating look that was chunkily painted onto his face was giving you so much discomfort that you had to ask if _he_ were well. 

“There, I am afraid, is where I cannot tell you that I am,” he sighed.

“You ill then, Mike?”

His lips twitched, the smile knocked down a few molars. “My name is _Mycroft_ , as I last remember.”

“Aye, I known you since you was still pissing in fields. Yer’ Mike to me.”

His lips twitched again, the smile lost entirely. He shuffled, tapping the umbrella to the floor. “Very well then. I will— _humbly_ —ignore the fact that I am both eight years your senior—not to mention your senior on a whole new level entirely—and that your insolence could be considered a capital offence—!”

“Don’t sound like you’re ignoring nothing. You always talked too much.”

He cleared his throat. “Well then. I’ll get right to it. It’s about Sherlock.”

Your smug smirk faltered. Mycroft had always been uncongenial company, ever since he were pissin’ in fields. Sherlock had always held a sour disdain for Mycroft, but maybe some days you exalted the mysterious dark fellow, since he seemed to sometimes be a touch cleverer than Sherlock, surprising as that was. At least, that was what Sherlock claimed, since you’d never been around Mycroft long enough to confirm it for yourself. You barely spent time with him, despite being kept in the same walls as he for many years at a time. As such you were entirely unable to read the dark fellow, his body language foreign to your untrained eye.

“What about Sherlock?” you asked nervously. “What’s he done?”

Mycroft inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. It all seemed too contrived, as if he were an alien touched down on Earth, trying to mimic being human without really being one of them. If there was one thing you knew for certain about the eldest Holmes brother, it was that he was quite the misanthropist. You couldn’t help a scowl as Mycroft took his sweet time, composing speech in his mind. Sherlock—although twisted and jumbled in his structure—always spat it out in good time. Finally, Mycroft seemed satisfied with his mentally prepared speech and turned his aged eyes to you.

“We’ve lost him.”

“Excuse me?” you asked bewilderedly, “you spent five and two minutes just to say _that_?”

Mycroft looked hurt. “Well, there’s little else to say. We don’t know where Sherlock is.”

“Y’ en’t never know where he is, d’you?” you scoffed. When you looked back at Mycroft, he was unfazed by your contempt, and that was what struck the match of fear. You shifted in the hospital bed, wincing as you propped yourself up. “Mike… en’t you up with the Queen or summat?”

He closed his eyes with annoyed grief, like a tired adult would with a child asking silly questions. “If what you mean to ask is ‘do I work for the government?’, then yes.”

“‘n you can’t find ‘im.”

“…no.” Now he looked ashamed, for real, and your jaw was slack.

“Where’s he been, then?!”

“Why do you think I am standing in your room?” he asked reproachfully, masking his patronizing sigh behind a cough. “I’m to ask you, apparently. Mother thinks you’d know.”

“Well, Mrs. Holmes is wrong. I en’t heard nothin’ of him in ages.”

“How long, exactly?”

You thought about it. “A fortnight. Exactly.”

“Two weeks… blast!” Mycroft seemed to realize something, his eyes bugging out with panic. Sherlock often made fun of this expression, calling him a Praying Mycroft, rather than a mantis.

“What? What is it, Mike?!” you called out desperately as the older man began to stalk out of your room. He paused in the doorway, seeming to think about something, before turning around slowly. His expression was as grim as you’d seen it, and you regretted not calling him Mycroft or Mr. Holmes.

“Sherlock… ah, no.” He didn’t deign to speak to you and scoffed deprecatorily. “I’ll let the brat tell you himself.”

He whisked away with a flourish of his coat, and you sat in bed, wondering what could have startled the man so much to actually look like he _cared_.

\---

You weren’t particularly fond of hospitals. You did have warm memories of spending time with Sherlock after he had broken your knee so long ago, but now, you saw them with nothing but sickly apprehension. Walking was hard but no longer impossible, and you made it back to your flat with only relative difficulty. You expected Sherlock to be lounging on your couch, or perhaps have a note written inconsiderately onto your wall with permanent marker—but there was nought. The let down added more weight onto your shoulders and you sat, your teeth grinding together with worry. Finally, you could take it no more and dialled the Holmes household.

Mrs. Holmes picked up after the first ring. “Sherlock?” she asked shrilly, “or Mikey, is that you?”

“No, it’s me Mrs. Holmes,” you stammered, fully aware of the disappointment you were feeding the poor mother. “My apologies.”

“Ah… I’m sorry, I’m just worried sick is all. But how about you dear, you all right?”

“Nevermind me. I was wonderin’ if y’ could patch me to Mike—er, M-Mycroft, that is.”

“Mycroft?” she asked, stunned, and rightfully so. “What would you like with Mycroft, sweetie?”

“Er… conversation?” you lied, cringing. She also seemed suspicious, but in a hushed tone, whispered a string of numbers that seemed much too long to be a regular telly number.

“It’s a private line, so don’t annoy him, yeah? Emergencies only. You know how he gets.”

“Yeah; thanks much, Mrs. Holmes.”

Punching in the numbers was a daunting task but you got it right after a series of attempts, finally putting the phone up to your ear. It dialled lifelessly before Mycroft’s irritated voice crackled through.

“What is it, Mother?”

“Mycroft, it’s me—”

“Excuse me?!” he spluttered. “I gave this line to my parents—agh, that blasted woman. Of course she’d give it out to you.” He sighed, the sound a rush of static over your landline. “Fine. It’s too late now, isn’t it? What is it that you want?”

“Sherlock. Have y’ found ‘im yet? Is he alright?”

“So worried that you had to use this line?” he asked, simpering. You could see his condescending frown through the phone line. Scowling, you ran a hand through your hair, aggravated.

“God, Mycroft. Mr. Holmes. _Sir_! Would you just tell me if Sherlock is all right?! That’s all I’m asking. Then you can hang up.”

“You really do worry for him,” he mused. “Well. That’s interesting. In either case… if you’d really like to know, I’d recommend booking a trip to the hospital.”

“The hospital?” you repeated, unsure if you’d heard him correctly. “I was just there, there’s no need for me to go back—”

Then you realized what Mycroft had meant, and promptly hung up on him, limping to the door. Mycroft sighed, annoyed that he hadn’t been the one to cut the line first, and tucked the phone back into his pocket.

“Somebody caring for Sherlock…?” he muttered under his breath. He shook his head. “Astonishing.”

\---

You were already confused when the lady led you into the psych ward. You expected A&E, not _psych_ —though it was understandable that many would find him crazy, as he was quite a bit (or a lot) insane. You still didn’t expect to see him lying, drooling on himself, his body shaking as if he were cold in the sweltering hot room.

“Withdraw’l,” the redheaded nurse said with a tinge of sadness. “He’ll be right once the saline drips through. Fer now, ye’ just have’ta’ wait, Miss.”

“Withdrawal?” you repeated, “from what? A-alcohol?”

“Nay, was drugs. Lots of ‘em. His brother came in with a whole list of it! Nasty stuff. The works. He keep goin’ the way he goin’ and he’d be dead before I’da blinked.”

She left. You sat down weakly at Sherlock’s side, stitches demanding attention in your side. He was in and out of consciousness, muttering loudly about something—but it concerned nothing you knew of. He had taken the meaning of oneness quite literally, snipping you out of his life as cleanly as with a nose trimmer. 

Seeing him like this hurt you. It wasn’t even a thing of the heart; it was physical manifestation of pungent, searching acid in your marrow. Your teeth were on edge and your skin broke out in a cold, deathly sweat, coating you with anxiety and anger. 

“Even Mike wouldn’t do that to me,” you whispered accusatorily, hoping somewhere deep in your heart that it’d set him off into one of his frenzied rants. Then he’d be normal again. But Sherlock merely jittered, a slurred “wasn’t the wife!” tumbling out of his mouth. 

“Wasn’t _me_ neither,” you agreed hotly, “‘cause you en’t never let me in t’ help.”

He jerked, and went still, falling fast asleep without notice that you were there crying for him.


	24. xxiv - Growth

“I’d gone slow.”

“Cocaine, morphine—what was the point of takin’ ‘em together, y’ cancelling out ‘em effects anyways! Codeine, _crystal meth_ —”

“Yes, yes, the grocery list.” Sherlock waved you off irritably, his IV cord flapping. “Would you let me explain?”

“No.” You scoffed with an incredulous grin, unable to do anything but smile in your disbelief. “How c’n you expect me to listen after you damn near committed suicide?! Here y’ are, solvin’ murders, and yet yer’ happy to kill yerself?”

“Hardly committed,” he retorted sharply, “I am a user, not an addict. And I went slow! Obviously, I needed to remedy that.”

“Sherlock—”

“ _Slow_. Even your brother—well, perhaps Nathaniel is not the best example given his exemplary IQ—even a _newborn_ could’ve protected you better than I.”

“Me?” you replied, stunned out of your angry reverie for a second. “What’re you on about _me_?”

“I should’ve—” He winced, drawing in a shaky breath before starting again, slowly, as if the words were too far ahead of them and he couldn’t quite grasp them right. “I should have been able to protect you from that brute. But I did not foresee it. I paid little attention to his case, not enough to you, and you paid the price of my negligence. _My_ idiocy.” He took a breath, before groaning in pain. Despite being angry with him, you stood worriedly.

“What is it?”

“Withdrawal,” he gasped, “is nasty business.” After a few shuddering breaths, he regained his composure enough for you to be justified in scowling at the bedridden man. His blue eyes flicked to yours and then away, his skinny fingers steepled despite trembling like naked rats.

“So I went under. I went deep into my mind palace, trying to figure out what went wrong—what happened to me, what happened to my—”

“I en’t care what happened,” you said bluntly, cutting him off. He stared.

“What?”

“I en’t care. You couldn’t-a seen it. Yer’ Sherlock Holmes, but y’ en’t no fortune teller. Yer’ the one who tells me that psychics en’t exist. What happened already happened. But _this_ …” You gestured madly at his hospital bed. “This? This en’t how you show you care. _This_ is idiocy.”

“Hold on then—where are you going, now? Having a storm off? A temper tantrum?”

You ignored his calls after you as you hobbled out of the room. Tears collected in your eyes, less from the pain in your abdomen and more from the pain in your heart. 

“Idiot,” Sherlock mumbled, but the insult was directed to himself.

\---

“Wh—you’re leaving, darling?”

“Yeah,” you replied simply with an apologetic grin. “Looks like England en’t for me after all. It’s time I really get on with my studies, too. Been lazing about too much, y’know? Might as well move to London proper.”

Mrs. Holmes blinked rapidly with surprise as you struggled to tape your overflowing boxes together. Her mouth worked open and shut like a creaky hinge as she struggled to find the words to say.

“You’re sure you want to leave? I mean… Sherlock, honey, he needs you here.”

You froze, a sad smile on your face as you looked down at the cardboard. Your back was to his mother, a mother that had treated you like her own daughter, and you shook your head.

“He en’t need me. He’ll be fine on his own, I think.”

“W-well that’s absurd! You’ve seen how he is, haven’t you?”

“Aye,” you muttered, pulling the tape down with such force that it tore. You turned back to his mother, a fake grin on your lips to try and ease her concerns. “Aye, I’ve seen him. And… he’s brilliant, en’t he? He’ll find his way fine, I’m sure of it.”

“Oh… well, if you’re heart’s set and this is really what you want, then at least let us help you pack. You’ve been such a blessing to our household.”

“Mrs. Holmes, you really ought to get home,” you blurted out. Mycroft had warned you not to tell his mother the truth, so for all she knew, Sherlock had merely come down with a mysterious virus. You smiled through your tears. “You really ought to get back to ‘im. Sherlock… ‘ll be fine without me.”

“Will you be all right without him?” she asked quietly, her intelligent grey eyes gleaming. After all, she was the mother of sprung genius. You swallowed thickly.

“No… but that’ll just have to be all right for now.”

\---

“You _will_ hold it right there!”

You turned, surprised, as Sherlock hobbled up to you on the street. He looked like a maniac, his stubble half grown out, his hair wildly untamed, and a dark blanket wrapped around his shivering frame. Was he wearing a bathrobe? You half thought his vengeful ghost had come to reprimand you for being stupid, but turned to your cabby and smiled apologetically.

“Only be a moment. The last of my boxes are on the steps.”

He went to retrieve them and you took a deep breath, preparing yourself to face Sherlock. You set your face in a low scowl and crossed your arms.

“You oughta be in bed Sherlock,” you reminded as he swayed in the wind. His nose twitched.

“Have you gone completely insane?” he demanded, ignoring you, his voice hoarser than usual. “ _London_?”

“You’ve a problem with that?” you asked monotonously. Your lack of emotion seemed to confuse him and his brow knitted together slowly.

“London isn’t _here_.”

You swallowed, the sudden intensity of your decision catching up with you. You steeled yourself by clenching your hands into fists and nodded once.

“’s the point. What, not bright enough to figure it out? Need some help, now?” It was positively cruel, you knew, but you thought that it’d be easier to lash out at him. That way, you’d regret leaving him less if he resented you.

“Why?” he demanded. He closed his eyes tightly as if that might help him figure it out, but you already knew. You’d known for a while. Sherlock was a genius and he could figure everything out—everything except for you. If he’d figured you out before, he would’ve been long gone… but you were his mystery. It was why he kept showing up in your house, your life, insulting you and playing with your feelings—you were a case file he’d always kept closed, too afraid to read into it, because if he solved it…

It’d be over. 

“It’s over,” you told him as softly as you could. “I’m to leave in a few. So goodbye, Sherlock.”

“Is this _my_ fault, now? Is this what you’re basing this on?” he shrilled, before you could turn and get into the car. His blanket flapped in the wind and he took a step towards you. You turned your gaze to the ground and grit your teeth, refusing to cry in front of him.

“Leave it be, Sherlock,” you spat. “Some things are better left unsolved.”

“What would get you to stay?” he said abruptly, surprising you enough to look at his face. True desperation marred his beautiful blue eyes. “London’s a terrible city. It’s polluted, full of moronic twats—”

“Sherlock!” you interrupted, shaking your head. For some reason, you were smiling, unable to control your emotions as your eyes filled with tears. “Sherlock… let's just leave it be.”

“I won’t,” he retorted, sounding offended that you would tell _him_ to back off of something. “Not until you tell me why.”

“If I do, will you let me go?” you challenged. Your hair was whipping around your face. A storm was brewing.

“Tell me why, then. Let’s hear it.”

“It’s _you_!” you cried, “and it’s me! This— _us_ —it can’t work out. I-I thought I was fine with it, Sherlock, because you’re so brilliant. I thought I was fine, being your shadow. But…” You licked your lips and then grinned self deprecatorily, looking to the side as the fat teardrops rolled down your cheeks. “You en’t never looked behind. Y’ en’t never looked for _me_. So yeah, you’re the sun, and I’m just the reflective moon… and I can’t do it no more. I can’t always be lookin’ forwards to somebody who never looks back.”

He was silent. You expected him to ridicule your analogy, insult your tears—anything at all. But he merely stared at you. You shook your head and turned, putting your hand on the cold car handle.

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry.”

You froze, the door half open. He remained where he was standing, wind howling in your ears, almost whisking his words away entirely.

“It’s… my fault. I’m sorry.”

You looked at him wondrously, your hand still on the car handle. Not _once_ in all the years that you’d known him had he admitted fault. He’d discovered faults, faults of yours and everybody around him—but never had he admitted to his own.

“You’re lying,” you realised. “You’re just saying what you think you have to say to get me to stay, innit?”

“I’m not. I am… sorry.” His gaze finally lowered, shamefully, and he turned. “If you’re to leave… I hope that you have safe travels. Goodbye.”

He began to walk away. You saw his back this way, and—had he always been that tall? He looked different, somehow, in a way you couldn’t place but seemed to know.

But he felt the same when you hugged him.

“What are you—?!” he spluttered, bewildered as you tackled him from behind. You let go as he whirled around, his eyes wide with shock. You were crying openly now, but the smile on your face was sickeningly genuine.

“You’ve grown!” you exclaimed, making his eyes grow even wider with concern to add to the confusion. “Bloody ‘ell Sherlock, when’ve you grown like this! You’re like a damn tree!”

“I—what?” Sherlock was not a man who’d fall to the level of a simple question such as ‘what?’ and seemed baffled as you began to laugh.

“God… I thought you’ve always been the same boy, stuck in a rut. But you’ve grown. Yeah, you’ve grown… I’m proud of you.”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea of what you’re trying to say right now,” he said stately, watching you wipe tears from your face. You smiled up at him.

“What, are you dull? I’m sayin’… that I’m waiting for you.”

“To do _what_?”

You began to walk backwards towards the cab, not wanting to turn away. He took a step after you but you merely grinned again, tears whipped off your face by the wind.

“Waiting for you to say sorry to me properly in London, you dumb bloke!” you yelled, to be heard. You weren’t sure if he could, but he was an expert at reading lips, so you weren’t all too worried. “I’m waiting!”

Sherlock watched as the cab finally started up and trundled away. His hair went this way and that, pulled by the stormy gusts, but a thin smiled was perched on his pale face.

Change is inevitable. A seedling grows into a vast oak; life comes and goes. Temperaments evolve, die, and grow. People grow.

Sherlock owed that to you. You owed a lot to him, too, but Sherlock owed his growth to you. To you, he owed many things he didn’t remember ever getting; didn’t realize until it was gone. As he walked away, back home, he looked behind him.

To you, he owed his first real love.


	25. xxv - Rebirth

Really, what was Sherlock other than an unexpected visitor?

You’d barely unpacked your first box in your new London flat when you had a phone call. Dropping the box, you disgruntledly pulled out your cell—unknown caller.

“‘Ello?” you answered, albeit with some suspicion—justified, you believed, due to your inconvenient situation of being tormented by a killer for the majority of your life.

“Hullo? Is this [Name] [Surname] speaking?”

You didn’t recognize the woman. She sounded elderly and friendly enough, but you were still hesitant, attributable to the whole ‘my parents were killed’ thing. 

“Yes,” you agreed slowly, still wary. “Why’s that? Who is this?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t know me. But you’ll probably be seeing me a lot, soon. I’ve just a warning for you: keep your front door unlocked, or you’ll find yourself without it. Cheers, darling!”

“Wait!” you blurted out, but only the dial tone answered. You looked at your phone screen, and then to your front door. It was a simple wood door, painted white. It looked innocent enough. You padded over to it, unlocking it and opening it into the hall. Nothing strange there. The neighbour’s door was identical to yours and shut tightly. Still, you weren’t sure why a stranger would warn you to keep your door _un_ locked, unless they meant for you to die.

“Great,” you muttered. “Fantastic. I’ve just moved out of that bloody town, and I’m about to die _again_.”

Classic British sarcasm had let you shrug off the weight of your mortality. You couldn’t help it. But you didn’t mind it, much, this time. You were hardly even nervous. You were a bit more prepared. You walked back over to your box and ripped the tape with your keys, digging through the panties and bras before shaking out the handheld pistol. It was licensed, of course, and more importantly, it was fully loaded. 

You didn’t have any furniture yet, so you dragged a different box over, plopping down onto it. It gave under your weight slightly. With nothing but a bottle of water and a gun in your hands, you sat in front of the door, and waited.

You weren’t sure how long you were supposed to sit around until your sudden assailant showed up. You played Crossy Roads and watched a few YouTube videos to pass the time, but after an hour, you quickly got bored. Things would probably be fine. _Probably_ was a stretch, but you didn’t have the patience to wait around anymore. You had googled the number that had called you, but it looked like a deadman’s anyways. You doubted that it was a prank call, but you also didn’t know what else you could do, anymore. You pushed your heaviest box in front of the door and turned back to your packing, every soft noise making you pause to listen.

Your bed wouldn’t be coming in until next week, so you’d set up your pillows in a pseudo-fort. You were just fixing up some instant noodles when you heard… scratching.

It wasn’t like a mouse-in-the-wall scratching, for you’d heard those plenty—this was the somebody-is-picking-my-lock scratching. Normal people would have been much more concerned, but you actually recognized it. It was just as every day as the mouse-in-the-wall scenario, for you were acquainted with a certain somebody that just could not do things in a normal fashion. You quickly moved to the door and threw it open.

“As I suspected,” you sighed, not even surprised to see him. He straightened from his hunched over position, adjusting his scarf indignantly. His lock-picking set hung out your lock guiltily. 

“I would’ve been through soon enough if you hadn’t interrupted me. You ought to get a new lock. Rubbish security.”

“Sherlock!” you exclaimed, beaming this time. You threw your arms around him, having to jump up to get yourself around his lanky frame. He stood stiffly, sighing irritably as you clung onto him. You stepped back and put your hands on your hips.

“Really, I’ve not been gone a day and you’re already missing me?”

“Missing you? Hardly.” He scratched his head and flicked back the tails of his long black coat, stepping into your flat without asking for permission. He surveyed your shoddy set-up judgementally as he spoke, nose turned up haughtily. “London has much more opportunity for interesting murders and work than home does, so I moved. You had nothing to do with it. It was a coincidence in timing.”

“Ah. Nothing, then?” you replied, playing along. “At least your friend was nice enough to ring me to warn me of your arrival.”

“Mrs. Hudson is nosy. That’s all. No matter—I merely wanted to see how well you’d adapt to city life.” He gave you a pointed glance. “Not well, I see.”

“I knew it was you,” you retorted. “Who else in their right mind would go around picking locks? A normal robber’d just use a crowbar. And before you say anything smart back to me, I lived in Manhattan for nine years. I know my way around a city.”

He stopped and turned in a swift, fluid motion. He made you crane your neck upwards as he stood over you, looking down at you through his eyelashes.

“…it’s good that you’re well. I trust you enough to take care of yourself.”

“You? Trust _me_? You must not be Sherlock after all!” you joked, unable to comprehend the sudden genuine tone in his voice, but he merely rolled his eyes. 

“Thank you for reminding me of why I hadn’t considered you as my flatmate.”

“ _You’ve_ a flatmate? My god, what’s gone wrong, Sherlock? You been abducted?”

“Yes, I have a roommate. His name is John—nice man. And nothing’s gone _wrong_. As I remember, I’ve educated you on how abductions could not physically happen until 2061—”

“Sherlock. Oi, Sherlock. Listen to me for a second.”

“What?” he snapped, annoyed that you’d interrupted his rant. You began to push him and he stumbled along, all the way back out to the hallway.

“If you’re kicking me out, you could’ve just asked me to leave,” he began, but you shook your head.

“I’m not. I want you to try again, but ring the doorbell this time. Like a _normal_ person would.” You raised your eyebrows as he stared at you quizzically. “Got it? Just ring the doorbell or knock. For once in your bloody life, just be _average_.”

“Why on Earth—”

You slammed the door shut in his face. You counted down the seconds that he would take to nurse his bruised ego—108 later, he rung the doorbell. You opened the door with a big smile.

“‘Ello. Who’re you?”

“Are you really playing this game?” he retorted, and you finally scowled, angry that he wouldn’t go along with your ploy.

“En’t you get it? We’re doing this again. Remember when we first met way back when?”

“…yes,” he muttered, quickly adding, “because I have an eidetic memory. I don’t forget.”

“This is like then. I en’t known you before. We’re meeting each other for the first time. It’s a new city. It’s going to be different this time.” When he kept staring at you, you shook your head and looked down at his feet. Muttering through your ground teeth, you tried to forget the image of his deathly pale face as you watched him struggle to regain something as simple as consciousness.

“It’s going to be different,” you continued. “Now, you’re going to ask for help when you need it. We’re all human. Even you, Sherlock, despite the fact that you might not want to be. So you’ve got to recognize your weaknesses. Got that?”

“You’re still sore about that?”

“‘Course I’d be!” you snapped. “It’s more than life or death! I _care_ for you, Sherlock, and I bloody can’t see that again. So, who’re you? Walk away if you en’t want to play pirates. This is your last chance. Take it or leave it.”

You waited, afraid to meet his eyes, afraid to meet the cool calculations as he weighed the benefits of remaining your friend to any cons he could think of. You’d understand if he left. A genius like that would have no time for ordinary folk like you. But still, your fingers were crossed behind your back.

“…William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

“What’s that?” you asked, looking up. His bony hand was extended in front of him. He scowled at you.

“I’m _introducing_ myself. You can understand that, don’t you?”

“…aye.” You couldn’t help the relieved smile. “Let’s call you Sherlock for short, then.”

You shook his hand. Although it was cold, it fit around yours. You’d said that things would be different, that things would be reborn—but maybe things were just being fixed. 

Either way, things’d be better this time. Sherlock didn’t let go.


	26. xxvi - Truth

Things settled back into rhythm quickly. It seemed that the both of you were better suited for urban life after all, easily adapting to the crazy melange of people and stories. London was a grittier metropolis than the town legends had described it as, the greys of the sky and road harsh against your memories of green valleys. Sherlock was clearly hooked on the stories, whereas you found comfort with the vast multitude of strangers. Word got around far too fast in the towns. Although you would always love the hills of home, you were a city woman. Streetlamps replaced stars and cigarette smoke filled the air like the marsh fog. 

But things were a little _too_ normal. Little had changed, if nothing at all. The good doctor, John Watson, was a pleasant addition to your life. He was somehow able to tolerate Sherlock and keep an eye on him when your back was turned. But nothing… changed. You’d thought that they were going to once you’d moved and started anew, but you still hadn’t heard a peep out of that mouth of his. He talked on and on, of course, but you hadn’t heard three specific words.

You still hadn’t heard ‘I love you’ from him.

Maybe you were being stupid about it. Childish, even. Had you even really grown up at all? Or were you constantly chasing the dream of forgotten youth? You might’ve moved away to the city, but your life was still a mess, following you from flat to flat. You had a lucky star upon you that Sherlock’s landlord seemed to love babying you, for she was the only reason that you weren’t eating dry noodle packets every night. Your schedule was hazardously arranged, at best, and it was surprising at all if you even saw Sherlock around. He never made time to meet with you.

Should you just give up?

You thought about it often, but it didn’t seem right. Even though Sherlock was a difficult character, he was the one that’d been in your life since the start. He’d held you as your parents were being toted away in black bags. He’d been on the other side of the phone lines during your stint in New York. He’d given you a spider as a gift, the dimwit. He’d given you the closest thing you’d known to love.

There was no way you could give up on him, but you needed something to change. You’d go mental if you didn’t at least figure out if he felt the same way. Of course, the best-case scenario was hearing him say those three worn words to you. Even if he didn’t feel for you, you’d at least be able to know. In either case, you knew that you wouldn’t be able to change yourself. You were too stubborn. At this point, you no longer had a choice but to confront him about it. After all, when had you ever taken the path of least resistance? The easy road was bollocks, and the both of you could at least appreciate one another for that quality, if nothing else.

Deciding on it with finality, you shoved your phone into the back pocket of your worn jeans, throwing on a jacket as you raced outside your flat. Baker Street was a mere short taxi ride away, and you flagged down a cab, spitting out his address as easily as you would your own name. You shivered in the cold hours of the late night, staring up at orange streetlamps, feeling like a lost moth following flames. This could be a mistake. But you tore your gaze away and looked forwards.

You could only hope that the sharp arms of closure would heal the wounds left by the truth. 

As the car neared his building, you felt your heart rate quicken steadily. You’d told yourself over and over that you were being silly; that his words shouldn’t mean so much to you. You just wanted to know. That was all! A satiation to general curiosity. But if that were the truth, you would’ve asked him a long time ago—if that were the truth, you wouldn’t be creeping up his stairs, one at a time, counting each breath to stall the next—if those three worn words didn’t mean so much to you, you would not have remembered his name at all. You would not be here.

And yet, here you were.

You took a deep breath and knocked on his door.

He didn’t answer. That was not surprising in the slightest. Sherlock was either with a client, asleep, or in his thought process. Client? Plausible but improbable, seeing as Sherlock only snatched up the strangest of the lot. It wasn’t every day that a levitating man would float by, so not that. Asleep? Most definitely not. Sherlock Holmes did not _sleep_ unless he physically passed out. Thought process? Most likely option. He’d be annoyed if he was disturbed, yes, but you didn’t think he’d find it unusual of you to barge in.

You merely knocked out of formality. You entered, closing the door behind you, and took a survey of the room warily. Your .380 was tucked safely in your pocket. Being beaten to near death by the murderer of your folks had made you overly cautious of these types of situations. The lights were on, but John Watson’s mousey figure wasn’t in sight, most likely tucked away in bed as an ordinary person would be. The house was dead, save for the skull on the mantel—well, you supposed that counted towards ‘dead’. Sherlock, every extraordinary, must’ve been in his room. You crossed the living room to his bedroom door, your knuckles trembling as you raised them to the wood. You would be fine. You would be fine, no matter the answer. The answer was all you wanted to hear, affirmative or not.

Well, you were goat’s innards of a liar, but at least you tried.

Before you could knock, you heard his voice float up. There was a set of heavy footsteps pacing, and you thought you heard a woman giggle. No, you _definitely_ heard a woman laugh. She was younger than Mrs. Hudson by a number of years you couldn’t count on both hands, and even her giggle seemed to be quite pretty. Your fingers curled up, hovering in front of the wood.

“Oh, Sherl; you spoil me, darling.”

“Keep quiet, else you wake John up. He gets quite cranky. I’ve no time to deal with his tantrums any longer.”

“Ooh, yeah. He was cranky last night, wasn’t he? Poor bloke. Walls a’ thin ‘n all.”

“Yes, they are. So keep your mouth shut, would you?”

The woman giggled again and you heard bedsprings creak. “C’mon Sherl, I’ll keep quiet for you if you say one thing to me.”

“‘Shut up’, is it?”

“No, you bloke! You’re supposed to be a genius, right? So say ‘I love you’. Say it and I’ll keep… very… quiet. Just for you.”

She moaned seductively. Your eyelashes fluttered and your heart was choking you out in your throat. Blood ran hotly in your veins. _No,_ you thought desperately. Yet it took him no time at all.

“Fine then. _I love you._ Pleased? Will you go to bed, now?”

“Sherl, you know best that I won’t be sleeping at all—!”

You kicked open the door, not giving two bull’s craps about privacy or knocking anymore. The poor girl leapt up off of Sherlock, shrieking, an understandable reaction to being barged in by a strange and disheveled woman. You ignored her. You merely sought out Sherlock’s bright blue eyes, faint disbelief making your jaw slack. He’d said it so easily. So naturally. You would’ve thought that such emotionally charged words would’ve been wrangled out of his smartass mouth, but he’d just said them to this woman you’d never met like they were nothing.

Like you… were nothing. 

His brow furrowed with confusion as he pulled the collar of his shirt back together, the button undone. His eyes were overcast, the dark light of the room making it impossible for you to read his expression.

“What are you doing, [Name]?” he asked, but you had already steeled your jaw. 

“I’m… I’m leaving. That’s all. Sorry! Sorry, I’m leaving.” You turned away so that you wouldn’t look at the woman’s bare breasts and pressed your sleeve to your mouth to stifle your sob. 

So that was the truth, huh? That was how he felt? That was your answer?

You were a terrible liar after all. Closure wasn’t worth it. You felt like shit.


	27. xxvii - Ardour

“Do you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, take [Full Name] to be your bride?”

You saw him roll his bright blue eyes, but they soon settled back on yours. His lips, which had been quirked up in a concealed grimace the entire time, moved slowly. 

“I do.”

“Do you, [Full Name], take William—”

“I do!” you said hurriedly, hoping to avoid the monotonous ramble of his ungodly long name. The priest looked to be taken aback but closed his little bible that had his smartphone hidden in the pages, the Manchester United game on mute.

“I-I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Sherlock leant forwards, stooping low from his height, and you closed your eyes to accept his kiss when—

The band’s angry beeps turned out to be your alarm clock. You stared up openly at the ceiling, the memory of his false kiss ghosting on your lips. A deep sigh left you, seeming to take your soul with it as you rolled over exhaustedly.

Of course it was a dream.

You hadn’t seen Sherlock after the incident. You didn’t think you wanted to. You were half-heartedly considering moving to a Scottish outback to raise sheep in order to avoid him entirely. The way he’d said _I love you_ to that stranger rung in your head just as church bells would, and it filled you with bitterness punctuated with bouts of deep depression.

Perhaps it was your fault for expecting him to return your feelings after so long. You of all people should have known that Sherlock detested emotion above all else—save for boredom. It wasn’t that he never felt them; but he ignored them. That foolish thought had given you a tiniest ray of hope, when a smarter you should have squashed that idiotic idealism in its tracks. Your feelings for him were rooted in childhood, and people changed. You knew that fact all too damn well.

You’d turned your alarm off but went right back to sleep, not giving enough of a damn to rise and face the day. Your life had taken a tumble for the worse. Of course, you’d thought that you weren’t the type of woman to spend her days moping about a man, but Sherlock hadn’t been any other guy. You’d genuinely seen him as the person you were destined to be with.

Cheesy and stupid. Stupid, naïve, and moronic of you. He could’ve come up with more sophisticated insults, surely, but you were too upset to think of him anymore.

“Go rot and die, Sherlock,” you murmured sleepily, shivering and drawing your blanket over your head. “Kiss my damn arse.”

“I would prefer not to.”

You screamed shrilly, suddenly awake when you had a reply that was not supposed to be there. You sat up stick-straight in bed, seeing Sherlock at your bedroom door, loosening his scarf uninterestedly. You couldn’t help but stare.

“Did you just break into my bloody flat?!” you gasped, incredulously. You hadn’t seen him in so long that you half-wondered if you were dreaming again, but the pounding in your chest told you that you were very much awake.

“Your window was open.” He waved spindly fingers to it and you spared a glance, realizing why you had been so cold when winter drafts fluttered in. Drawing the blankets over your pyjama shirt, you found a grip on yourself, and glared at the tall man hovering by your bookshelf.

“I don’t want to see you, Sherlock. Kindly let yourself out through the _door_ , would you?”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said abruptly, pleasantly ignoring your request as he flipped through one of your books. He dropped it on the floor rudely, picking up another one as he continued. “I was wondering why that was.”

“Wh—you didn’t _realize_ why I was so bothered?!” you exclaimed, nearly ready to fly out of the bed and pummel him with your bare fists as he shrugged. 

“Surely it’s some trivial womanly thing.” He sniffed the air, dropping yet another of your books onto the floor as he crossed the room to the second bookshelf that you’d arranged. “Fruity candle? How sentimental.”

“Sherlock,” you warned, “get out. Really. I’m not in the mood.”

“Clearly,” he returned, back to you as his fingers danced along the spines. Your hands balled into fists and your head lowered shamefully as tears began to sting at your eyes.

“Look, I think we’re better off without each other. Go off and play your mystery game, and _leave me alone._ ”

“Do you really think that way?” he asked, whirling around. He was holding something that you couldn’t see in your blurry vision, tears swimming in your eyes. You shrank away from him as he walked to your bedside, averting your gaze so that he wouldn’t see you cry.

“It’s obvious, innit? You don’t care for me, so fine. It’s a waste of everybody’s time, so would you just please listen to me for once in your damn—”

Something heavy dropped by your legs. Startled, you looked. The book was face up, faded from age, but readable:

**Detailed Anatomical Structure of the Human Skull**

“I broke your knee and I kept you company in the hospital. Remember that?” he challenged flatly. You stared down at the text, almost not having remembered it at all. Why had you kept it for so many years? Well, the answer was obvious to you, but you doubted that Sherlock would understand such an illogical, pathetic reason.

“I—” you began, about to tell him off before he continued, walking around your room. He picked up a metallic dog tag, still engraved with the name _Redbeard_.

“You lost your dog and I named mine after yours. Remember _that_?”

“What the hell are you getting at?” you asked tiredly, finally pulling yourself out of bed to stand. He kept pacing your room, pointing things out that you’d forgotten about entirely.

“Your parents. Murdered. You stayed in my room.” He took another step, running a hand over a pressed flower. “You nearly died by the hand of Gilchrist O’Malley. I found you in the grove.” A crumpled note of paper. “Sheet music that I wrote for you when you moved to Manhattan.”

“Sherlock!” you cried out as you clutched your head, unable to bear the flood of memories that you’d been blocking out, “would you get to your point?”

“Why else would a woman keep useless trinkets? It’s simple. A deduction clear as day.” He whirled around, finally facing you. His face seemed grim. “I have come to a conclusion based off of the facts. 

You love me.”

Your heart was in your throat. He took a slow step towards you, angling his head to get a closer look at your face, examining your features. You felt the tears running down your face. When you remained silent, he continued, the loudness of his voice diminishing to a gentler cadence. The previous ardor in which he raced around your room, spying out all the embarrassing mementos of your past, was muted.

“So what if I do?” you muttered, finally spitting it out as he came closer. Your voice broke as the truth was forcefully wrestled from you. You turned away, staring determinedly at your feet. “You don’t feel the same. And I suppose that’s fine and all, Sherlock, but you ought to just leave me be.”

“…who said that I don’t feel the same?”

Your head snapped up. He was wiping his thumb over an old photograph, and you realized with a jolt that it was you and he as children—a silly photo by the river, the both of you grinning cheesily at the camera. He didn’t face you, speaking to the photograph, but his words were strong.

“I will admit to you that I do not get emotional. I am not soft. I am hard to read, and I prefer it. Emotions get in the way. That will not change about me.”

Suddenly, he swept to you, arms locked around your waist. Your face was buried into the rough felt of his coat, preventing you from seeing his face when he muttered, almost irritated,

“another that will not change is my view of you.”

“Sherlock,” you breathed, your heart fluttering. You refused to believe this was true; there was no way that he was meaning what you were thinking. You closed your eyes, standing stiffly as he embraced you. “Sherlock, tell me simply.”

“You are an annoyance. A shadow of my past that refuses to quit following me around. But, although I may not understand… although I cannot manipulate the variables as I’d like… although love is just a melange of chemicals in the brain: dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin…” His arms twitched around yours and you felt him sigh disgruntledly. “I cannot erase these emotions.”

“That wasn’t simple in the slightest,” you whispered, trembling. “Say it to me simply, Sherlock, I swear to God…”

“I suppose that the evidence checks out.” He pushed you away, forcing you to stumble back. He turned abruptly, facing the wall as he said, hands in pockets,

“I love you as well.”

“You… are _awful_!”

He did not seem to expect that reaction and turned, wide eyed, as you knocked him square across the jaw. He was no fighter and fell to the ground, stunned, as you heaved for breath over top him.

“Sherlock, you are the _worst_. Absolute _rubbish_ —you couldn’t-a said it earlier?! You bloody dimwit, you—”

“All right then, stop _hitting_ me!”

You withdrew your fist, still breathing hard. He scrambled up to his feet, clutching the new bruise on his chin as he glared down at you.

“If I’d known you’d react this way, I’d have—”

“You’d have what?” you snarled. He sniffled smarmily.

“I’d be an idiot to say—your passions are directed quite violently. I would have expected a shred of enthusiasm from you, what with you sulking around like this.”

You took a step towards him. He stiffened, ready to ward off another one of your blows before you threw yourself at him in an all-encompassing hug. He shuffled backwards with the force of it, his arms hovering awkwardly around you as you squeezed him tightly.

“You’re bloody awful,” you muttered disgruntledly, “but you’re right. I do love you.”

“…surely, you don’t expect me to repeat myself.”

But his arms came back around you, holding you—clumsily, but there all the same.

Three chemicals. That was all it took to have you head over heels, hopelessly in love with an idiotic genius. And yet, it was a bit more than that—contrary to Sherlock’s belief, it was much more than three chemicals. More than four, even. There had to be something more that was fueling this ardour. There _was_ something more between the two of you than just a mutual hormonal response of the brain.

Some people called it love. Sherlock called it a pain in the arse—but he felt quite the same way, much to his endless despair.


	28. xxviii - Sex

Knowing Sherlock meant that you had to be ready for awkward questions. Even if you were one of the unlucky (perhaps lucky) people who _didn’t_ know him, you should have been prepared nonetheless. He wasn’t one for things like social grace—he was hardly one for ‘playing nice’ at all. The ever-curious mind of his transcended appropriate behaviour, leaving him asking questions that would have best been left unasked. You had to anticipate answers to the most bewildering inquiries in order to avoid humiliation. And, if you failed to do that, you had to be good at sitting speechless in a spotlight as he questioned you about your history of sexual activities in front of an old lady.

“Pardon me?” you spluttered.

“I _asked_ if—”

“No, I didn’t mean ‘repeat the bloody question’! I’m asking you why it matters!” Whirling around, you gave a pleading look to Mrs. Hudson, who had selfishly taken her cue to hurriedly scoop half-empty tea cups onto a tray and leave. She gave you an apologetic shrug before dashing out the door in a speed that betrayed her frail frame, and the door was slammed shut, shaking dust from the walls.

“That’s classified. Now, would you answer?” he demanded curtly, swooping down into his designated chair in order to face you. His long legs were crossed, mismatched socks drawing your eye to his impatiently bouncing foot. You could only shift in John’s seat awkwardly, your face warming uncomfortably so. Normally, you didn’t find yourself so affected by his idiotic lines of questioning, but this particular instance of victimization made your heart race and your hairs stand on end. 

“No. I’m not going to answer your ridiculous question!” You tried to leave it at that and made to get up, but his arms locked around you. Frozen, your nose nestled in the silky fabric of his chambray shirt, his shoulders broad. He’d locked you down into the arm chair, his frighteningly blue eyes storming down on you.

“It’s a simple yes-or-no question. Have you, or have you not commenced in the act of—”

“All right!” you blurted out, desperate to shut him up before you had to hear the words roll off his tongue again. You cringed back into your seat, and he stood, the overwhelming presence lifting off of you. Relief allowed you to take a breath. He swept back to his own seat, taking the faint scent of whatever Sherlock smelt like with him. (You said this because you genuinely didn’t know; depending on the weekday, he might’ve smelt like ink stone, burnt wood, or methamphetamine.)

“If I answer, you’ve got to promise not to tell anybody. Not John, not Mrs. Hudson. Not even the damn Royal Guard!” you hissed, leaning forwards with your urgency. God, you didn’t think you’d ever be able to _look_ at Mycroft again if Sherlock decided to open his big fat mouth. Much less his mother! Or the damn Queen!

“I’m waiting,” was all he responded with, head perched on his willowy fingers. You’d always been annoyed that his attention was so easily divided amongst things, but suddenly, you wished that he was occupied with something else besides you. The unnerving stare of his shrivelled up your resolve.

“…nevermind. Kiss my arse.” You leapt out of the chair before he could storm forwards and catch you again, but his voice was a sharp whip’s crack through the air.

“ _No_ , I won’t tell anybody. All right? Do you need me to make you a pinky promise?” He sighed, and you could imagine the exasperation on his lean features even when your back was turned. 

Slowly, reluctantly, you retreated back into the chair. Your legs were stiff as boards as you sat back down, eyes on the floor to avoid meeting any judgement lurking behind his eyes. You shouldn’t have been so nervous; surely, Sherlock had asked you stranger questions before. Yet things had been different back then. Things had been concrete and crystal clear. Sherlock was your best mate and nothing more—now, with things still up in the smog-filled air of bustling, new-start London, you were floundering.

“Yeah.” You kept your shameful answer brief and succinct. You cringed once it was out in the air and made to rise again. “Yes. All right? Happy, now? I’m leaving.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said nonchalantly, almost as if you hadn’t said anything at all. He even seemed to be talking to himself, twirling a broken pencil in-between his fingers as he muttered to the now vacant chair. “Women living in a metropolis statistically lose their virginity at a lower age…”

“Are you going to tell me what awful case this is for?” you asked, still humiliated and red-faced as he kept muttering on and on, like the answer he’d pestered you for was nothing in the end. Did he really think so little of you that it meant nothing? Were you just a number in the statistics he was rambling off? Upset, you scoffed and turned away, but he made an uncomfortable noise between a groan and a whimper, and you worried that he’d dropped dead of cardiac arrest. He was still sitting there, but his frown had deepened, leaving pronounced lines on his pale skin.

“It’s not for a case,” he said vaguely, deliberately looking very far away from you.

“Then what the hell’ve you been harassing me for?” you snapped. “I reckon you’re out to make fun of me—is that it?”

“No,” he muttered, once again, losing the annoyingly convoluted answers that Sherlock often loved to reel out. 

“Then _what_ , Sherlock? I’ll have you know that I’m no mind reader. You need to _talk_ to me if you want me to understand anything that goes on in that head of yours.”

“A hypothesis,” he blurted out, now on his feet to pace off a sudden spike of nervous energy. It made you anxious just to watch him jitter around. Waving his hands emphatically, he kept muttering through his teeth. “You can’t prove a hypothesis without an experiment.”

“And?” you asked dryly when he didn’t bother to elaborate. He stopped directly in front of you, huffing a sharp, determined breath before his eyes seemed to snap to yours.

“I need you as one of my materials. In order to complete the procedure.”

“…have you just called me an _object_? Oh, Sherlock—I’ll give you another chance to re-word that before I kill you myself.”

“You’re being so damn _difficult_!” he groaned, whipping away to continue his pacing, hands tugging at his dark locks of hair. He seemed to be thinking about how to best say it, before he gave up, yanking on the front of your jumper. You stumbled along, right into his front. 

His lips were harsh on yours, unexperienced but adaptable. As Sherlock always was, he gave you no chance to understand, so when he pulled away you were completely breathless.

“Now you’ve introduced uncontrolled variables,” he murmured, his feigned annoyance too weak to hide the embarrassed undertones. Not even you were too slow to ‘catch his drift’, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart burst in your chest.

“I never thought I’d see the day where you’d ask _me_ for help,” you whispered back, understanding flowing through you in delightfully sharp electric waves. You reached out, gripping the front of his own shirt.

“You really could’ve just said so from the start.”


	29. xxix - Joy

“Who’s a good girl? You are, Rosie, good girl! Nom, nom… mm, tasty, innit? Yeah, what a good girl you are!”

“John’s daughter is not a _dog_ ,” Sherlock said testily, eyeing you from afar as you gently spooned the disgusting looking formula into Rosamund’s mouth. “Last I was aware, you don’t treat children as such.”

“You’re the one who just called her John’s _spawn_ ,” you retorted, rolling your eyes. Turning back to Rosamund, you saw that she’d tried to spit out her mouthful of blended carrots, the orange trail from her wet lips evidence enough. With a small sigh, you took the bib, mopping up the mess from her face.

Not one to turn down a chance to sit one of the cutest babies you’d ever had the fortune to happen upon, you’d agreed readily to take Rosamund off of the Watsons’ hands in order to give them some much needed sleep. Both had been overly cranky for your liking. John’s mood always was heavy in affecting Sherlock, which always came back around to _you_. It was never any fun to deal with Sherlock when he was in a mood, so win-win! Besides, it was your own way to insert yourself into a domestic fantasy. John and Mary’s wedding had been so wonderful—excluding the murderous mishaps that came with it—but really, what was a wedding without proper surprises? 

Then, the birth of their daughter was so momentous that you practically found yourself as a new parent yourself. Despite the fact that Sherlock was adamant on keeping you and John apart—most likely in the (well-placed) fear of his closest friends conspiring against him—you felt that you were at least qualified enough to be looking after Sherlock’s godchild. After running around behind the socially-stunted Sherlock and your younger brother Nathaniel for so many years, it wasn’t difficult to care for the infant.

You shot him a wistful look when he went back to his reading. You still didn’t know exactly where you stood with him. One misstep and you could very well be feeding your _own_ child with dark curly hair and icily blue eyes. But… was marital bliss even in the equation for you? Were you doomed to be Sherlock’s _girlfriend_ for the rest of your life? 

If he’d even call you that. At most, he budged at ‘domestic partner’, which made you sound more like a maid than his lover.

Well. Good thing it didn’t matter, for you didn’t even find the prospect of marriage to be that attractive! You were very committed to Sherlock, what with your pining after him for several decades. You didn’t think you _needed_ a slip from the state to declare your shared love. Surely, the fact that he hadn’t forgotten your name stood for something. Still, the tax benefits would be nice. And being able to call Sherlock your ‘husband’, and having the Holmes name tacked onto yours, and having a lovely white-dress wedding in the cool English countryside, and—

Oh, hell! Who were you trying to kid? God, you _wanted_ to be married. You’d had wedding fever ever since you were a kid, watching tacky soaps with your mother and TMZ dramas in the States. Who _wouldn’t_ want a grandiose celebration filled with beautiful flowers and cake and champagne induced cheer? The big, five-tiered cake… the first dance… the first kiss…

Rosamund finally caught your attention by crying loudly, clearly upset by the sudden lack of food she had decided that she now wanted. Startled, you jumped, and tried to clear your mind to resume feeding her. She wasn’t having it, though, strong lungs ripping through your eardrums as her flabby arms flailed in the air.

“Would you shut it—her—up?!” Sherlock called from the living room disgruntledly. You picked Rosamund up out of the high chair, but she fought you, which was terribly disheartening. 

“Whatever happened to our girls’ team-power?” you pleaded with her, but she ignored you, screaming and thrashing. With a sigh, you figured that you had to put an end to this before one of Mrs. Hudson’s other tenants knocked down the walls. 

“Sherlock, she won’t stop crying.” You brought her into the main room, which’d probably tick him off, but you were genuinely at a loss. Bouncing her on your hip, you could barely manage to keep her from leaping out of your arms. “I’ve checked her diaper and tried to feed her, but I think she just misses her parents.”

“She’s too young to ‘miss’ anything,” he countered irritably. “Her hippocampus is not anywhere near developed enough for complex memories, and her limbic—”

“Oh, would you hold her for a moment?” you interjected, already passing the child over while she was hell-bent on trying to wriggle out of your hands. She was screaming now, red-faced, fists balled up and swinging in the air with pure emotional chaos.

“I will not—oi, what on Earth are you _doing_?!”

“Experiment,” you said, deciding to use his lingo for once. “Maybe she’ll settle if she likes you.”

“I…” He trailed off, clearly speechless for once in his goddamn life. Gripping Rosamund with two hands, he looked as if he was holding a teddy bear in the air rather than an infant child. Hurriedly, you adjusted his arms so that she wasn’t dangling over the floor, and crossed your fingers. Rosamund kept crying, and crying, but then… she stopped. Despite the fact that Sherlock was now resembling a corpse, stiff-backed and pale and all, Rosamund settled down. She even began to coo, fearlessly reaching up to grab a tendril of Sherlock’s frazzled hair.

“You’re a nuisance,” he hissed down to her, albeit in a low, begrudgingly acceptant voice. “Don’t listen to the others. I hate you.”

Rosamund giggled at that, pulling hard on the fistful of hair. He’d said that she wasn’t smart enough for anything besides crying and sitting around, but you could tell that she was laughing at his flimsily set up lie. Sherlock swore under his breath, and Rosamund, astute, garbled back in return.

“She likes you!” you exclaimed, still baffled by the sight. “I can’t fathom why.”

“Do you think _I_ could?” he responded sullenly, looking resigned as he bent his head to prevent hair from being ripped out of his scalp. You had to press your lips together to hide the smile.

“Wait there. I need a picture of this.”

“Are you daft? Take her back already, you—argh!” He scowled deliberately when you dug your phone out, snapping a photo. Satisfied, you sent it off to John, holding your phone close to your chest as you watched Rosamund gaze adoringly up into Sherlock’s face. He ignored her, deadpan as he waited for her to let go—only, the girl never did.

“Happy now?” he asked disgustedly. In contrast to the pure distaste in his tone, you were beaming.

“Yeah.” You nodded, smiling to yourself as you thought again of that wedding you’d probably never have; the kids you’d probably never end up seeing. Turning away, you hid your face by staring out the window, huffing out a short sigh as the smile fractured. “Yeah… I’m happy.”

His brow twitched with confusion. Emotions had never been his strong suit—they hardly qualified as his ‘weak suit’. Even for him, there would always be a case that he wouldn’t be able to crack. At the very least, he could tell that you were lying. He just had to go and figure out why.

Rosamund gave him another tug, bringing his attention back down. Her miniature lips were quirked up into a smarmy grin, almost as if the brat were saying _‘I know and you don’t, dummy!’_. He frowned down at her, and the expression seemed to be silly enough to make her laugh, for she bubbled as if she hadn’t just been wailing away a moment ago.

“I’m putting her to bed. I’ve had enough,” he declared. He rose, and then clicked his tongue impatiently. Surprised, you looked up, seeing him standing expectantly. The bundle in his arms was still, and you saw Rosamund’s eyes shut, thumb stuck into her mouth.

“Are you coming?” he snapped when you didn’t move. You got to your feet, unsure.

“Erm, all right…?”

The both of you went upstairs to John’s old room, which had now been refurnished as a secondary nursery for whenever John was over for work. The floorboards creaked, sounding extra loud as the both of you stayed quiet as not to wake Rosamund up. Sherlock stood in front of Rosamund’s crib, lowering the infant down into the sea of soft stuffies John and Mary had left for her. Fondly, you loosened her blanket, touching your finger to her miniscule ones. They twitched in response.

“Look. I know I’m not exactly…” Sherlock began to wave his hands, struggling to articulate, something that he usually never had a problem with. “Good. With emotions. You know I—”

“‘Despise them’,” you quoted wryly, rolling your eyes as you pulled back from the crib. “Yes, Sherlock, I know.”

“Still… it’s my responsibility to you. As John and Mary have to their child.”

“You… you see me as your kid?” you asked, appalled. Your self-esteem seemed to be crumbling into the wind before your eyes. Forget a wedding—did Sherlock see himself as your babysitter rather than your boyfriend?! Closing his eyes with exasperation, Sherlock scowled, kneading pale knuckles into his temples.

“No. I… _love_ you. All right?” He winced after saying the words, but you had to commend him for managing them at all. “So, if there’s something you have to say, you ought to just out and say it. You run your mouth anyways, and I’m not going to ask. But… I will listen.”

He hastened his words after ‘I love you’ to cover it up, but it was there. Sherlock had said “I love you” without being prompted. And, he hadn’t run away afterwards, standing his ground with his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. The grin tickled the corners of your lips before spreading wide across your face. It was a big, ugly, goofy smile that seemed to warm you from the inside out.

“You serious, Sherlock? John didn’t ask you to say that to me or nothing?” You couldn’t help the excitement sprouting in your chest, and he responded with neutralizing exhaustion.

“Don’t make me take it back,” he muttered sullenly. You reached forwards, drawing him into a tight hug, pressing your face into his chest. After a moment, you felt his fingers dance across the small of your back, and you were truly joyful. 

Forget the big wedding. This was all you really needed.


	30. xxx - Endless

“D’you love her?”

“Love?” Sherlock scoffed haughtily, even going so far as to roll his eyes in the most obnoxious _I’m rolling my eyes right now_ kind of way. “Love is a meaningless construct. Dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin—the brain is rushed with a melange of pathetically savage hormones that cloud the mind. Love is stupid and abhorrent, Watson, and I’m not to play along in your naïve charade that love is ‘good’.”

“You _do_ love her!” the fair-haired man exclaimed, practically bouncing in his seat. Sherlock’s rant rolled off of him as water off a duck’s back, and John snapped his fingers conclusively. “I knew it!”

“I love _puzzles_ ,” Sherlock corrected hastily. “That much I can vouch for. If those are personified as a fickle woman, then fine, I would agree.”

“No, you know that I’m talking about [Name], here. You love her! Even Irene Adler couldn’t have done this to you! Ho! Get a load of that. Sherlock Holmes, in real, true _love_.”

“Do _you_ know what you’re saying, John? Because it sounds to me like _blah blah blah_ —”

“All right, all right. …but-you-love-her.”

“I do _not_!” Sherlock snapped, even though John had only barely muttered under his breath. The mousey man’s smile sprung up again and he shook his head with disbelief.

“You do. Have you told her? Told her that you love ‘er?” John was leaning so far forwards in his chair that he seemed close to falling out. Sherlock rubbed his temples, having been distracted from his thought processes by the other man. _Of course_ he had, but he wasn’t about to let John in on that. John didn’t know about _any_ of his and yours’ joined past, from that fateful meeting in pre-kindergarten to the entire sequence of your parents’ murders to now. Better kept that way, for the sake of his peace of mind.

“Is it any of your business?” Sherlock scowled bad-temperedly. “I don’t recall _my_ asking you this many details about Mary. Perhaps it was because I never _did_.”

“This is different,” John waved off. “You actually love her. God save the queen! I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.”

“Where do you keep getting this notion?” Sherlock replied peevishly, feeling like he was jittering with the sudden onslaught of nerves. Cursed cortisol. “I’ve not mentioned her, and you’ve only met her a few times—”

“Then why’ve you been muttering her name?”

“What?”

“Why’ve you been saying _[Name], [Name], [Name],_ under your breath as you make the tea? Been describing to me what she looks like as you trundle around in your silly mind palace. Do you really think you don’t sleep talk? In fact, I think you’re right; her eyes really do look like—”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock snapped, swiftly. “I don’t speak aloud unless I mean to.”

“Then you didn’t mean to. Doesn’t change the fact that you did.” John grinned, but it was less smug and more subdued. He knew that he’d won, but he also knew what his best friend was like. It was like trying to tame a fussy toddler with a genius IQ. Sitting back into his chair, he nodded at his fellow mate. “Sherlock, you’ve got to go for it. You don’t know if the chance’ll slip away.”

“Go for what, now?” Sherlock replied, albeit more defeated, disappointed in himself for succumbing to such _human_ nature. He sank back into his chair as John shrugged nonchalantly.

“Marriage, of course.”

\---

“The ouroboros.”

“What’s this, now?” you demanded tiredly. You even went so far as to yawn, scrubbing sleep out the corners of your eyes. “You called me all the way over to rant? Where’s John—”

“The ouroboros,” Sherlock continued impatiently, loudly in order to talk over you. He faced the wall when he spoke, his hands clasped behind his back. “The Greek serpent that devours its own tail. The infinite cycle of life and death. Creation and destruction; eternal return—”

“That’s nice,” you interjected, bored. “If that’s all, I’ll be leaving. I’ve got a brunch date.”

“Let me finish,” he snapped, sounding mildly hurt. You sighed, looked around, and then sat back down heavily. With a flourish of the hand, you mocked the appearance of a faithful listener, resting your chin on the other hand.

“Well. Go on then.”

“The ouroboros is endless. It represents infinity.”

“And I care _why_?”

He looked as if he were in genuine pain when he grimaced at you. “You do know what an ouroboros looks like, do you?”

Your blank stare told him the answer and he scowled.

“A ring! It’s in the shape of a ring! A _circle_?”

“…so? You’re not about to spring a maths lesson on me, are you?”

“Hell,” he muttered to himself, stalking away and rummaging in a storage chest kicked into the corner. You watched after him in amusement, quite used to his displays of temper tantrums when he remembered that he was the smartest person in the room (as if he ever forgot). Sherlock had a bad habit of forgetting that ordinary people couldn’t follow his messy, meandering thought patterns. The only one who could ever hope to was Mycroft, and it’d be highly insulting to you if Sherlock ever mistook you for the eldest Holmes brother.

When he returned, he flung something at you, so quickly that you scarcely had time to catch it before it nailed you in between the eyes. You opened your fingers, looking down at your palm.

“ _That_ is what an ouroboros looks like. Honestly, _women_ … I’m not sure what the big deal is.”

“Sherlock…?”

“You know, Mrs. Hudson was right about marriage. Useless. Absolute rubbish! John’s a moron. Did you know that in some villages, marriage is consummated by the bride hacking the testicles off of her husba—”

“ _Sherlock_!”

He stopped, and you held the diamond ring up at him, eyes wide with something between awe and fear.

“You’re not serious?” you asked, the sparkle in the gem seeming to suck the energy out of you. Looking faint, you collapsed back down into the chair, still holding the ring up in your trembling fingers. “You’re not saying what I think you’re…?”

“What, you haven’t figured it out?” he asked arrogantly. When you were silent, he continued haughtily. “You’re to marry me. I find that the tradition of gifting each other rings is waste of money, but it was the simplest, most colloquial way to convey my intentions—”

“You’re not _serious_?!” you yelped. It didn’t look as if you’d even come remotely close to processing it. He looked annoyed, before striding over to you with his long legs. He knelt carefully, plucking the ring out of your hand and then jammed it onto your left ring finger with much less grace than you would’ve liked.

“There. See? Married. At least I’ve beaten Mycroft at one thing.”

“W-wait. Just wait a damn minute! You’re actually asking _me_ to… _marry_ you?! For real? Not for some silly case or heist o-or—”

“Yes. I’m perfectly serious. What else could I mean? Am I not being clear enough? I thought I was abundantly clear.”

“But… why?” Your head was still spinning. The ring fit perfectly on your finger, which was no surprise, but you still found that you couldn't even concentrate enough on your question as you had so many whirling around in your skull. “Why now? I-I thought that you hated marriage, I thought—”

“The essence of life is change. I am a brain; the rest of me is merely an appendix. But you…” He got back to his feet and turned away again, pacing in front of the large mirror. Even in your daze, you tracked his face, his eyes looking uncharacteristically distant in memory as he muttered under his breath. “You… have always been there, too. I am a brain, but you are the rest of me.” He whirled around. “I cannot have one without the other. A brain is useless without a body. Elementary, I must say. So I’m quite disappointed in you that you didn’t see it coming.”

“An ouroboros is endless,” you breathed, closing your eyes to steady yourself. You gripped the arms of the chair, the metal of the ring digging into your skin. “Marriage… endless…”

“Calm down,” he murmured disgruntledly, suddenly right in front of you. His long, tapered fingers rested against your jaw and you opened your eyes, meeting his, bright blue and charged with intelligence and wit. They were softer now, as they darted to each eye of your own, examining you to make sure that you hadn’t gone and had a stroke. He even went so far as to raise an eyebrow. 

“It wouldn’t have been anybody other than you, you know.”

“You’re insane. You know that? You’re insane.”

“You don’t have the option to say no, so I’d recommend calling Mary if you’re to plan a wedding. It’d have to be small, mind, and if you dare to invite my parents I will not be appearing—”

“Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

He scoffed, turning away again—but this time, you could catch the faintest tinge of pink on the high bridges of his pale cheeks.

“…and I you.”

\---

“That one, you see ‘im? That light one over there.”

You pointed, your other arm curled around Sherlock. The both of you braced yourself in the harsh English air, watching the litter of puppies dash around in the grass. One was much more exuberant than the rest, yapping its mouth off ecstatically. Floppy birchwood ears resembled fluffy wings in the air as he bounced around, racing to you and then to his brothers, and then back to you to paw at yours and Sherlock’s legs.

“As long as you’re the one training him. I’ve not the time,” Sherlock warned. But his voice was softer than it had ever been, his eyes misting over with nostalgia. You knew that he was thinking about Redbeard. This dog in particular wasn’t quite as cinnamon toned as Redbeard was, but you were quite sure that Sherlock would love him all the same. People hadn’t been sure that he was capable of such a thing— _love_ —but you knew better. 

Your arms tightened around Sherlock, feeling his warmth surround you. It’d been a journey. From when you’d first met him as Captain Redbeard, to when he’d given you a sheet of violin music… to when he’d rescued you as Heaven knocked on your door… to when he’d first said I love you, awkward and clumsy in the perfect Sherlock way.

In the end, things always came back full circle. Nothing was ever forever, was it? People die, memories fade, mighty trees are felled, all eaten up by the hungry mother that had birthed them all. The sun will die, as would you—as would Sherlock.

And yet, circles have no start… and no end.

Three little molecules. Three little neurotransmitters, little chemicals in the brain. Things you could not see hypnotized you, enraptured you—they made you fall so deeply into love. It was an addiction that you had, to him and to this feeling of ‘love’. Every single component, dark and angry or light as sunlight on your cheek— _you_ had been the addict all along, for you could never keep away from Sherlock.

And was that the only thing? Was there nothing else that pulled you to Sherlock—pulled him to you? Both of you were different sides on the same round coin, rolling and encircling each other in constant rhythm.

Sherlock was difficult, but anything worth having is never easy.

“I love him,” you breathed, nestling your face into his shoulder to shield yourself from the wind. Sherlock let out a soft sigh, bowing his head to your own so that you felt the warm air brush your skin. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. You understood him well enough. You knew.

It was a start of something new altogether, this Redbeard the third. And maybe it was another point on the circle of life. In the end, it was endless, you and Sherlock—joined together by spirit and love—along with a dash of healthy irritability, for nobody could ever be totally accustomed to Sherlock’s nature.

Never mind it. You loved him still.

**Author's Note:**

> Elsewhere: https://goo.gl/W51qzm


End file.
